


Beyond The Cracks

by strandedchesspiece



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Clay Spenser Whump, Clay whump, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Clay Spenser, Hurt/Comfort, Papa Blackburn, Past Child Abuse, Repressed Memories, Worried Trent, asshole ash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23964565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strandedchesspiece/pseuds/strandedchesspiece
Summary: Clay is knocked out at the tail-end of an op. Trent has treated many head wounds, but none have left him as troubled as this one.
Comments: 161
Kudos: 327





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one has been swimming around my brain, so it's time to try to get it out. Usual disclaimers apply, and apologies in advance for any mistakes or medical inconsistencies. I've made a few assumptions for the sake of this story (Clay's season 3 age, Blackburn's operating history, and Trent's relationship status). I've also chosen to ignore the rift between Clay and Sonny.
> 
> I'm going to stick a **WARNING** on it as well, for mentions of child abuse. It wont get graphic, but the last thing I want to do is trigger anyone.
> 
> Wherever you are, I hope you're safe and well.
> 
> Thanks for reading :) x

If there was one thing Trent knew for sure, it was that he needed a holiday. A decent one. Not just a couple of days downtime after an op. He needed a good, solid break. Preferably somewhere quiet, peaceful, away from everyone. With a stack of his favorite movies to binge on, some video games. Beer. Snacks. His comfy pants. And no cell phone.

Yeah, that was never going to happen.

But a man could dream.

" _Grenade!"_

Clay's cry shattered their hope of making it to exfil without incident – as well as Trent's dreams of escape.

Trent was bringing up the rear with their youngest man, following the rest of their brothers as they slipped out of their target's apartment building and into the damp, three AM Havana streets.

Their target was dead. Mission complete. Their ride would pick them up at the mouth of the street.

The grenade came out of nowhere, clinking along the pavement at Clay's heels. Trent barely had time to react, before he felt Spenser cannon into him, hurtling him towards the shelter of a parked car.

Ahead of them, their brothers did the same.

The grenade detonated. The sound demolished the otherwise peaceful night, shattering windows and hurling debris.

So, their target had more friends, after all. Fucking brilliant.

Half a heartbeat of silence followed, before bullets erupted, pinging off metal as Bravo were fired upon.

Trent cursed, pushing up from the wet pavement, trying desperately to get his bearings. His ears rang, sounds muffled.

Further along the footpath, his team mates crouched behind the row of parked cars, returning fire. He did a quick head count out of reflex, snatching his rifle and preparing to join in the fight. All accounted for, except –

"Spenser!" Trent's grip on his rifle faltered, and he dropped the weapon - reaching instead for Clay's pants leg, gripping tight and dragging their boy closer into cover. "Man down!" He yelled over his shoulder, though his voice was mostly lost in the mayhem.

Clay was on his back, unmoving, ragdoll floppy. Blood ran down one side of his face from somewhere near the rim of his helmet. For a horrifying moment, Trent worried Bravo Six had caught a bullet in the head. But a quick once-over revealed a deep gash, not a bullet hole.

He swallowed jaggedly, heart in his throat. Bullets continued to fly as he hastily searched for a pulse.

No matter how many times Trent found himself in this situation, it never got any easier. Blocking out the immediate danger, trusting his brothers would take care of the threat – it was hard. He would much rather be putting holes in the enemy than assessing and patching holes in his friends. It was much easier to focus on eliminating a faceless, nameless target, than it was trying to save the life of someone he cared about.

It could be said that it was Jason's job, as team leader, to ensure that everyone made it home safely. But it could be equally argued that Trent, as team medic, carried more of that responsibility. It wasn't a role that Trent had actively pursued. He'd never truly wanted it. And yet, here he was.

Clay's pulse was there, thrumming beneath Trent's slightly trembling fingers. Thank God. Keeping as low as he could, Trent swung off his pack and snagged a wad of gauze. There wasn't time to properly treat the injury, but he could at least attempt to stop the bleeding. He pressed the material against the gash in Clay's hairline as best he could, not game to remove their boy's helmet just yet with bullets still flying around.

The firefight continued for another fifteen seconds. Trent remained focused on Clay; his three-foot world for the time being.

Finally, the enemy's guns fell silent - the last tango crumpling to the pavement.

"Four, sitrep!" Jason called.

Trent continued to press the gauze against Clay's forehead. "Six is down," he replied breathlessly, casting a quick glance towards the rest of the team. "Head wound. Unconscious. Not sure how bad."

The others hastily rose to their feet, a sense of urgency sweeping through them.

Trent took a moment to snag his penlight, quickly lifting Clay's eyelids and flashing the light across his pupils, noting that both were dilated.

"Sonny, help Trent," Jason ordered. "We gotta move."

Trent shuffled on his knees, grabbed his pack and weapon. Sonny appeared and together they gently lifted Clay into a sitting position, taking an arm each across their shoulders as they flanked the younger man and brought him upright.

Clay's head lolled forward, chin on chest. Trent didn't like moving him without knowing the full extent of his injuries, but right now it wasn't an option to hang around exposed on the street.

Jason spoke rapidly into his comms, updating HAVOC on their situation.

Sirens wailed in the distance. They had to make themselves scarce, quickly.

Starting forward as gently as possible with Clay between them, Trent's eyes caught Sonny's.

The Texan's gaze was heavy with worry, his expression rattled. "He gonna be alright?"

It was a question Trent couldn't answer, though God knew he wanted to say yes. Experience had taught him that it was better to say nothing, than to offer false hope. He chose not to reply.

Sonny knew better than to keep pushing. Lips pursed in a grim line, he readjusted his grip on his best friend, holding Clay a little closer, and hurried on.

The sirens grew louder. Shouting could be heard in the street ahead of them, as well as behind them where the bodies of their attackers lay.

Their exfil was compromised. Hastily, they rounded a corner into deeper shadows, footfalls as light as they could manage.

In the sky above, city lights reflected off billowy clouds. The night was warm and humid, air wet with recent rain. The clouds parted briefly, and a fingernail moon glinted through.

Comms crackled. Blackburn's voice buzzed in their ears. "Van's moving to backup exfil. How copy?"

Ahead of them, Jason suddenly slowed. Motioned for them to press closer to the wall of the building they were passing by.

A police car sped past the mouth of the street ahead, close to where they were supposed to meet their ride.

Trent felt the cool of the bricks behind his back, did his best to keep Clay as concealed as possible, stop their boy from slumping too far forward. Sonny did the same on his side.

"Copy that, HAVOC" Jason replied, voice low. He darted a glance back towards Trent, eyes snagging on Clay. Trent caught a flicker of worry, the tightness in Jason's next words. "Six is still unconscious. The sooner we're out of here the better."

There was a beat of silence. They all knew Blackburn understood, and would do everything he could to hurry that along. "ISR is showing a lot of activity in your area. You've woken the neighborhood. We'll direct you as best we can."

Trent felt his stomach knot. It was always the seemingly simple ops that went sideways. Or perhaps it was him thinking about a holiday that had jinxed them. Clay needed to be horizontal, not dragged further through the streets. Kid was still bleeding, and Trent had no free hand to keep pressure on the wound.

Sense of urgency growing, they hurried along, turning down another narrow street that led to their backup exfil point. They stuck to shadows, thankful that most of the buildings were shops and businesses instead of residential.

Trent focused on not jostling Clay around more than necessary, and not banging into any lamp posts.

Approaching their rendezvous point, it appeared they would make it to the van without issue. However, two things suddenly happened, conspiring to send that hope into the ground -

Blackburn reported that police were swarming the scene of the explosion, patrol cars circling, and now their backup exfil was also out of the question.

And Clay chose that moment to wake up.

Trent startled and halted abruptly. He and Sonny reflexively tightened their grip as the younger man had a moment of panic, tried to yank free of their grasp, before flopping forward, heaving.

"Easy, easy," Trent soothed, as Clay emptied the contents of his stomach into the gutter.

"You with us?" Sonny questioned, words unsteady as he juggled his side of Clay's sagging frame.

But Clay was out again, just as suddenly as he'd woken, which put Trent on edge. He instructed Sonny to make sure their boy was leaning forward, in case he vomited again. Finding Clay's wrist, he counted beats.

Clay's pulse was thankfully still strong, albeit too quick.

"HAVOC, this is One," Jason spoke rapidly into his comms. "Seeking cover to regroup. Gotta get off the street. Update us when the coast is clear."

Trent attempted to get a better view of Clay's face. It was near impossible in the shadows.

"Clay?" Sonny probed, hopeful for a response, tone heavy with concern.

But Clay didn't rouse again.

Cerb pulled against his leash, trying to get closer to their injured team mate. But Brock kept him back, ordering him to stay - though his own eyes were bright with worry.

Ray had backtracked slightly down the street, was stopped by a door. A nod to Jason, and they all quickly moved to meet him.

The door was old, fastened with a small padlock. A large, half-boarded up window sat beside it. There were no signs of life, security cameras or alarm systems.

The padlock was easily smashed off, the door kicked open. Ray and Brock led the way inside, scoping the place out quickly, before motioning the others to enter.

The room was musty; concrete floor, paint peeling from walls. It had been a shop, of sorts, but had obviously been abandoned for a long time. Somewhere, in a back corner, Trent caught the scuttle of a rat. Light from a streetlamp shone through the gaps in the window boards, illuminating the room in an eerie half-light. There was a door at the rear, padlocked from the inside.

As far emergency hiding places went, it wasn't bad. They'd had worse.

The front door was quickly closed, and Ray stood guard.

Brock and Cerb manned the room's rear entry, which opened into a narrow alleyway.

Trent guided Clay to a clear space on the floor, reasonably free from trash and rubble. With Sonny's help, he gently lowered their boy onto his back.

Sonny stepped out of the way, and Jason came to a crouch on Clay's opposite side - his eyes skipping across their unmoving brother and landing on Trent. "How's he doing?"

Trent worked quickly, giving Clay a proper once-over. Once he was satisfied that there were no other injuries, other than the head wound, he blew out a tight breath. Shook his head. "I'd be happier if he was conscious," he replied honestly, turning to fish through his pack for a fresh square of gauze, sterile wipes and antiseptic.

With Jason's help, Clay's helmet was carefully removed. Trent lifted the younger man's head and ran fingers through unruly hair, checking for cuts or bumps.

Clay didn't stir, face unsettlingly pale in the dim light.

Thankfully, Trent's searching fingers found no other injuries. And a closer inspection of the gash in Clay's hairline showed that the bleeding had just about stopped. He cleaned it and covered it.

Jason stared a moment longer at Clay's unnaturally still face, before muttering a curse and moving off to talk quietly with Ray.

Trent's eyes followed their team leader, knowing that the agitation was coming from a place of anxiety, not anger.

Sonny hovered, shifting nervously and adjusting his grip on his rifle. "He woke up. That's good, right?"

Trent offered a half-nod. Yes, technically it was good. But it didn't mean Clay was okay. "He needs a hospital," he said simply.

Sonny could read between the lines. The set of his jaw betrayed his worry. Clay was far from out of the woods.

"Hey," Trent continued. "Let's just focus on getting him out of here. It's the best thing we can do for him right now."

A clipped nod, and Sonny stepped away, moving off to check on Brock.

Trent understood. It had taken him a long time to work out how to banish the worry and just focus on the job at hand when a team mate was injured. Those emotions that threatened to overwhelm, they were a distraction. All operators were skilled at compartmentalizing, but Trent would admit that it was hardest when one of their own was down. When that happened, he relied on his team mates to focus on the mission – and they relied on him to focus on treating their injured man. Bravo were one of the tightest teams in DEVGRU. It was both a strength, and a weakness.

Focusing on Clay once more, and ignoring the clipped conversation between Jason and Ray, Trent re-checked the younger man's pulse, breathing, and pupils. When he moved the penlight from one of Clay's eyes to the other, Clay suddenly woke up again, yelling out and scrambling backwards towards the wall, startling them all.

Trent didn't miss the fear and confusion in Clay's expression - the younger man's eyes round and bright in the gloom.

Clay pressed himself against the wall and drew his knees to his chest, as if attempting to hide behind them.

Trent half-spun and gestured to keep Jason and Sonny back, halting their approach. Swinging his gaze back to Clay, he very slowly held out a placating hand and shuffled closer, remaining on his knees.

Clay groggily tracked his every move, breaths jagged.

Trent swallowed roughly, feeling like he was approaching a frightened animal. "Clay?" He prompted, voice quiet and even.

But Clay's gaze darted between him and the others in the room – the complete lack of recognition causing Trent's stomach to curl. He closed the rest of the distance, stopping once he was a couple of feet from their now trembling boy. "Clay?" He tried again, hand still outstretched. "You're okay. Take it easy."

Tears were leaking, starting to roll down Clay's cheeks. His eyes remained wide and wild.

Trent batted away his mounting anxiety, opting to start with a simple question. "Do you know who I am?"

Clay's expression didn't change. He hugged himself tighter, jerkily shook his head.

Jason cursed tightly, moved back towards Ray. Trent heard him speak into comms, demanding the van swing by and pick them up ASAP, police patrols be damned.

Trent took a grounding breath, conscious of Sonny hovering a few steps behind him, and Brock's attention from the back of the room. He didn't have to turn around to know what expression his brothers currently wore. He felt his own panic clawing at his insides, and battled to keep it from his features. Deciding to push his luck, he inched closer.

Clay appeared scared, small and vulnerable – three things that Trent had never associated with their youngest brother. "It's okay," he reassured, speaking not just to Clay, but to himself as well - barely managing to disguise the tremble in his words.

Clay whimpered, closing his eyes briefly and swaying. There was fresh blood on the gauze at his hairline.

Trent was ready to catch him, should he topple over. He couldn't help but notice how Clay cradled his left wrist behind his knees, close to his chest, as if it hurt. It sent his thoughts backtracking, trying to work out if he'd missed an injury. It was entirely possible. He was about to ask, but Clay spoke up.

"I - I just want Quack back," he whispered, words breaking into sobs.

Say what now?

Trent tried not to look as confused as he suddenly felt. "What did you say there, buddy?" He asked gently, understanding that Clay wasn't in his right mind.

Clay's gaze darted about, catching on nothing. His face crumpled even further, cheeks wet with tears. "I didn't mean to knock over the juice," he admitted brokenly, voice still barely audible.

Trent had to lean in further just to hear him.

"Quack wanted some," Clay continued, as if it explained everything. He sniffed, wiped his nose with the back of his right hand. Swayed. Nearly went over sideways, but managed to catch himself. "I didn't mean to," he repeated. "I just want Quack back. Please. I need him back."

As confused as Trent was, he realized that, in order to get anywhere, he would have to play along with whatever his little brother was rambling about. He cast a quick backwards glance at Sonny – who appeared to be lost between shock and fear - and dared to inch forward, until he was right beside Clay.

Clay put his head down against his knees, shoulders shaking as he cried.

From across the room, Brock announced that he could hear police patrolling the alley beyond the back entrance.

Jason hurried to assess the threat, tearing his eyes from Clay to refocus on the situation outside.

Trent rested one hand very carefully against Clay's back, allowing his other hand to gently grip Clay's closest knee, effectively bracing him. "It's okay, buddy," he soothed. "It was an accident. You didn't mean to. It's all good." It was one of the stranger conversations he'd ever had with Bravo Six, that was for sure.

Clay's unfocused gaze met his. His lashes were clumped with tears. Trent could just make out the blue of his irises – still looking glazed, most definitely concussed.

"Will you tell him that I didn't mean to?" There was more than a little desperation in Clay's tone. "He said he was going to rip Quack up." A new wave of emotion overtook him, and he was sobbing again. "Quack's my only friend." The last word was a choked whisper.

Trent's anxiety swelled. Clay was clearly confused - either dreaming, or reliving a memory. Not present at all. It didn't bode well. _Focus Sawyer_ , he berated himself, pulling his thoughts away from his swirling worry. He just needed Clay to calm down, preferably lay back down, and stop freaking out. "Who?" He found himself asking, playing along. "Who said he was going to do that?"

A handful of emotions flickered across Clay's features – none of them positive. He hiccupped, eyeing Trent as if trying to work out whether to trust him, whether he'd said too much. He dropped his voice even lower, and with bottom lip quivering, whispered, "My Dad."

Trent felt his gut clench. Something cold traveled through him. He eyed Clay's tear-and-blood streaked face, his cradled wrist. He swallowed roughly, mouth suddenly dry. "Is your wrist okay there?" He probed. "Can I take a look? I'm a medic. You can trust me."

But Clay curled further in on himself, shying away. His breathing was jagged, his gaze swimming. It was clear he wasn't going to un-scrunch himself willingly.

Trent backed off slightly, gave up on the wrist. He would check it as soon as he was able to. He held his hands up, showing that he wouldn't push any further.

"Trent?" Sonny's tone was quietly desperate from where he stood statue-still, hanging back.

Trent darted a glance at the Texan. He was as confused and worried as Sonny was. Giving a tight shake of his head, he returned his attention to Clay. There was one more question he wanted to ask the younger man, though he was scared what the answer might be.

"Clay?" He started carefully, being sure to keep his voice non-threatening.

Clay's glazed eyes met his.

Trent swallowed roughly. "Uh, can you tell me how old you are, buddy?"

Clay snuffled, lip still quivering. Eventually, in a very small voice, he replied, "F-four."

Trent felt his breath catch. Whether Sonny had heard his question, and Clay's subsequent answer, he couldn't be sure.

As it happened, Clay chose that moment to list to the side. His eyes rolled back in his head.

Trent easily caught him, guiding him back down to the dust-covered floor.

Moving quickly to check pulse, breathing, head wound and pupils, Trent couldn't stop his hands shaking. Was this the new version of Clay? Confused, and stuck God knew where in the past? And if he had indeed been reliving a memory, what did that imply? They all knew that Ash was a shitty father – but had Clay's childhood involved something more sinister than just an absent Dad?

Too many questions, not enough answers. Trent recognized that he couldn't focus on it right now, as much as he desperately wanted to fill the blanks. He had a job to do – and that was getting Clay out of here.

The sounds from the alley out the back ramped up, flashes of light darting briefly through the small boarded window by the rear door.

Blackburn's voice came over comms. "Van's one mike out from your location. Meet out front."

Jason clapped Brock on the shoulder, switched his rifle into his right hand and strode across the room. "Copy that," he replied, waving the others into motion. "You heard the man. Let's move."

Trent snatched up his gear and got a shoulder under one of Clay's arms.

Sonny was on the other side without even having to be asked. "C'mon Bam Bam," he muttered. "Let's get you outta here." His tone was gruff, but Trent didn't miss how gentle he was with the younger man. "We're gonna get you patched up and you'll be just fine," he continued. "Just wake up and stay awake, okay? No more of this narcoleptic crap."

Trent pursed his lips, stepping carefully towards the front entry and looking between Clay's face, still damp from tears, and Sonny's grimly determined expression.

He could only pray that the next time Clay woke up, their boy would be the right version of himself.

Not a four-year-old, caught in a twenty-nine-year-old's body.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the encouragement :) As always, it's so appreciated! Can't promise the next chapter will be uploaded so quickly, but I'll do my best. Thanks again for reading! Stay safe x

Trent lunged for the emesis bag and helped balance Clay on his side as the younger man heaved.

Tears leaked from Clay's eyes, but this time it was from the effort of dry retching – not from some traumatic childhood memory.

Trent had never been so relieved to catch anyone's vomit before.

Clay was strapped to a gurney, conscious, and most importantly, _himself_. He'd come to as they'd boarded the aircraft, had thankfully stayed that way. The C-17's engines rumbled around them as they made their way back to Virginia Beach. They were half an hour out. Not much longer, and they could get Clay to a hospital.

Clay swallowed convulsively, and Trent continued to hold the bag in position. Clay's stomach was empty, and nothing but frothy bile was coming up – the most painful type of vomiting.

After another moment, Clay shuddered and dropped his head to the thin pillow, squeezing his eyes closed and rolling carefully onto his back with Trent's help.

Trent lowered the bag, assuming Clay was done. Poor kid was exhausted from the effort. Throw in a head injury, and it was clear that he was in a world of misery. Trent had given him intravenous painkillers, as well as antiemetics. But they had only taken the edge off, at best.

" _Fu_ -" Clay tried. Coughed, scrunched his face. Tried again. " _-uck._ "

Trent offered a sympathetic look, patted his little brother's blanket-covered leg. "Yeah," he stated, gently lifting the gauze and checking Clay's wound hadn't re-opened from the most recent bout of vomiting. "Hang in there. We're nearly back."

Clay squinted up at him, struggling against the dim lights of the plane. His blue eyes were still very glazed, focus swimming. He was doing his best to keep his sagging eyelids open. "Tired," he croaked.

Trent sighed, pressing the gauze back down and allowing his hand to rest momentarily atop the unruly mop that was Clay's hair. He'd been pinching Clay every time their boy had drifted off. It felt cruel, but it was a necessary evil. And so far, it had seemed to work to keep him present.

Trent felt a brief tightening of anxiety within his gut. The last thing he wanted, was for Clay to have another episode like he'd had back in the abandoned shop.

Jason sidled up beside the gurney, stopping near Clay's feet. "Still with us, Spenser?"

Clay's gaze drifted, eventually glanced off Jason. He offered an exhausted half-smile. Tried to give a thumbs up.

Jason returned the smile, though Trent noticed the worry lines etched around his eyes.

Now that they were out of danger, Jason's attention had shifted to his youngest; a mish-mash of team leader and fatherly concern hanging about him.

Bravo One had recently been locked in a heated discussion with Blackburn and Davis, regarding the bad intel on the number of tangos they had faced back in Cuba. Trent had watched from a distance, feeling the tension of their this-could-have-been-so-much-worse conversation. He'd seen the flicker of guilt cross Davis' features, the rigid set of Blackburn's shoulders.

Just like Jason and Trent, Blackburn and Davis were two others who felt the heavy responsibility of ensuring that everyone made it home in one piece after a mission. It was an unenviable, common thread that bound the four of them.

The rest of the guys sat on a bench seat not far from the gurney, half-hearted conversation being passed around. There was none of their normal post-mission drinks or celebrations. Each of them had one worried eye fixed firmly on Clay.

Sonny had drifted over a couple of times, offering a handful of jokes and reassurances. But his conversation had been one-sided, as Clay was still very out of it, and Trent could tell that their cowboy felt lost without the light-hearted post-mission banter he usually shared with Clay.

Jason hovered another few moments, gaze skipping to Trent. "You should go sit down for a bit," he suggested. "Take a break. I'll keep an eye on the kid."

Trent adjusted the flow of the IV, darted a glance at his team leader. He was good. He would take a break once Clay was settled in a hospital bed.

"'m not going anywhere," Clay murmured in agreement with Jason, glazed blue eyes less than half-mast. "Go sit."

But Trent shook his head. He knew he wouldn't settle, even if he could sit down. He was still on edge, thoughts churning. Clay remained his responsibility, until he could hand over to a proper doctor on the ground.

Jason sighed, possibly knowing that he had better luck winning the lottery than winning an argument against his number four. Resignedly, he clapped Trent on the shoulder. Directing his words at Clay, he said, "Keep those eyes open. Got it? That's an order."

Clay's lip twitched – his best attempt at a smile. His eyelids dipped, but he managed to jerk them back open.

Trent knew it was only a matter of time before Clay lost his battle with fatigue. "You're doing good," he encouraged, as Jason moved off. "How's the nausea?"

Clay swallowed convulsively, cleared his throat. Winced slightly. "'s okay," he replied.

 _Liar_ , Trent thought, but didn't push further.

He re-checked Clay's vitals, the IV line. There wasn't much more he could do, other than try to keep him awake. He could easily hand over to one of the others, but something kept him by Clay's side. He kept having flashbacks to the abandoned shop, Clay's wide eyes, tears, trembling voice.

" _Who? Who said he was going to do that?"_

" _My Dad."_

Trent swallowed roughly, mouth dry. The pit in his stomach remained.

" _Can you tell me how old you are, buddy?"_

" _F-four."_

It hadn't simply been a dream, of that Trent was sure. The fear in Clay's eyes had been far too real. Trent felt like, for those handful of minutes, he'd peered through a dark, troubling window into Clay's past, and had been handed a small insight into what four-year-old Clay's home life may have been like.

His stomach curled. For a heartbeat, he debated grabbing an emesis bag for himself.

Eyes settling on the rise and fall of Clay's chest, he opted to take some steadying breaths instead, re-grounding himself.

At the time of Clay's episode, Sonny had been standing too far back to have heard any details. And none of the others had been close enough either. Clay's small voice had reached Trent's ears only. And it was highly unlikely that the kid would ever recall the conversation. Which meant that he, alone, carried the knowledge of what Clay had said.

Unsteadily scrubbing a hand over his eyes, Trent wished to erase the memory. It felt like he was now carrying around a piece of information that he wasn't supposed to have, and there was a measure of guilt hanging alongside that.

Clay hadn't _knowingly_ opened up. The younger man had unconsciously acted out the scenario, vulnerable and exposed. Trent felt torn on how to proceed. He could pretend it had never happened, but would that be the right thing to do, for his brother?

Clay's eyes sagged closed.

Trent rubbed the kid's arm, grabbing his wavering attention. "Hey," he appealed. "Stay with me."

Clay's eyes were slits, but he was fighting. The lids remained just cracked – blue shining through.

Trent allowed his hand to still on Clay's arm. Let his gaze fall to Clay's left wrist. He'd checked it over - twice. But hadn't found any evidence of injury. No swelling, bruising, stiffness. It appeared fine. And yet, Trent had _seen_ the way Clay had held it, protectively against his chest. And he'd seen enough broken bones in his time as a medic to know how someone held an injured limb.

Thoughts swirling, Trent chewed his lip. Clay had been reliving an event from when he was four years old, obviously terrified of his father's reaction to some small accident he'd had with some juice. If Clay's wrist was fine now, then the way he'd been holding it was indicative of how it had been feeling at the time of the incident.

Trent once again felt a chill travel through him. A child shouldn't be huddled against a wall, curled protectively in on themselves after a disagreement with a parent. That was the type of behavior that resulted from fear, from feeling threatened.

Tightness gripped Trent's chest, as his mind began to sift through endless possibilities.

The motion of the plane starting its gentle descent snapped his cartwheeling thoughts back to the present.

"Hey," Brock's voice came from beside him, causing Trent to startle - a curse tumbling over his lips.

Brock raised a brow. "Sorry," he offered. "Didn't mean to scare you. Was just coming to check in."

Trent raked a hand through his hair, mainly to disguise his shakiness. He refocused his attention back on Clay. "He's okay," he reported, pinching Clay again when the kid's eyes drooped closed and didn't immediately re-open.

Clay flinched back awake.

Brock gave Clay's knee a squeeze, offered an encouraging smile – though it was debatable whether Bravo Six's swimming gaze caught it. Dark eyes turned back to Trent. "Was actually coming to check on you."

Trent furrowed his brow, shook off the concern. "I'm fine," he assured.

But Brock pinned him with a level look that clearly stated that he wasn't buying it.

Trent didn't comment further.

"Something's bothering you," the dog handler continued. "I can tell."

Once again, Trent shook him off. He loved Brock, and usually appreciated his best friend's freakishly accurate insight and quiet observations. But right now, he just needed some space to process what had happened. Time to figure out what, if anything, he should do with the small but disturbing parcel of information he'd stumbled upon.

"You're worried about Clay?" Brock guessed, pushing on.

Trent released a breath through his nose. Yes. Yes, he most definitely was. But not in the way Brock was probably thinking. "I'll feel better once he has an MRI," he admitted, skirting around the truth.

Brock held his gaze for another few beats - not entirely convinced, but wisely deciding to back off. His eyes skipped back to Clay. "You're worried he might have a skull fracture?"

No, Trent wasn't. But even he knew better than to make a judgement call on a head wound. "Concussions are tricky," he admitted. "I'll relax a little once we have the full picture."

Brock didn't reply, just offered a comforting pat to Trent's back. "Just make sure you take a breather, once he's being looked after at the hospital, okay?" He said gently.

Trent caught and appreciated the genuine concern.

Brock rubbed Clay's shin. "Hey, hang in there, brother," he encouraged. "We're landing real soon."

Clay's eyes remained slitted, an unsettlingly small amount acknowledgement in them.

Trent made sure the straps on the gurney were secure, tucked the blanket in more firmly at the sides. He placed a hand on Clay's chest, rubbing it slightly, trying, for what seemed the hundredth time, to catch and hold the younger man's attention.

Blackburn stepped up to the gurney, as Brock excused himself to check on Cerb.

"Medical team are ready and waiting," their commander stated, hands resting on his hips and eyes travelling over their youngest man.

Trent caught the ripple of worry cross Blackburn's features, the hard set of his jaw. He removed his hand from Clay's chest, cleared his throat. "I'd like to travel with him to the hospital," he replied, words stiff. He was willing to argue, should the request be denied. He wasn't anywhere near ready to leave Clay's side.

But Blackburn just offered a calm nod, as if he'd been expecting Trent to ask. "Already arranged." There was understanding in his eyes.

Trent's pre-prepared argument died on his lips. He allowed a tight nod in return, grateful.

Clay shifted on the gurney, immediately snagging both of their attention. He let out a small groan, face pinched.

Trent recognized the look, and hastily rolled him to his side. He went to grab the emesis bag, but Blackburn beat him to it – quickly holding it up for Clay, wincing as the younger man's body stiffened with the force of a new bout of dry retching.

One hand on Clay's trembling shoulder, Trent offered to take the bag off their commander.

But Blackburn shook him off.

Once the heaving passed, and Clay's muscles relaxed, Trent guided him gently back onto his pillow. He'd already given Clay the maximum amount of antiemetics. Hopefully the hospital would be able to do more.

There was nothing worse than reaching this point. He'd done all he could with the medical knowledge and resources he had available. It was like being put in a holding pattern, with limited fuel, and hoping like hell it was enough to make it to their destination.

Blackburn lowered the bag, twisted it closed. He let his hand fall gently upon Clay's shoulder, held it there a moment.

Clay continued his fight to keep his eyes open. His blue gaze wandered, glancing briefly off the older man, his brow scrunching.

Trent couldn't tell whether the expression was out of misery, or perhaps embarrassment at realizing their CO had been the one to catch his latest vomit.

"Hang in there, Spenser." Blackburn gave Clay's shoulder a squeeze. He offered Trent a clipped nod, before moving off.

Clay's unfocused gaze followed in his wake, before floating back in Trent's direction. His lip trembled slightly, and he asked, in a very small voice, "Is he mad at me?"

Trent frowned, cast a glance in Blackburn's direction. "No," he replied, puzzled by the question. "Of course not. He's just looking out for you. We all are."

A stray tear leaked from Clay's eye, rolled down his temple and caught on his earlobe. He didn't look convinced. "Does he know?" He whispered, words cracking.

Trent's stomach dropped, recognizing the tone of Clay's voice as the same from earlier. There was a brokenness between the words, a trembling of fear. He froze, unsure how to respond. Deciding to take the same approach as before, he played along, keeping his voice low and gentle, and trying to keep Clay calm. "Does he know about what, buddy?"

Clay's gaze was still swimming, eyes wet with mounting tears. "That I was bad. And I …" He broke into a sob. "Lost Quack."

Trent swallowed jaggedly. "You weren't bad," he soothed. "It was an accident. Remember?"

But Clay's lip continued to tremble. He shook his head, squeezing his eyes closed. "I don't want Eric to be mad," he continued, not responding to Trent's words. "He'll be sad that I lost him."

Eric?

Trent opened his mouth, closed it again. Since when did Clay call their commander 'Eric'?

Sensing Clay's growing distress, he fished for something else to say to calm him down – stealing a glance at his brothers and quickly deciding that it would only make matters worse if he brought one of them over to help.

Sonny looked up questioningly, but Trent hurriedly waved him off.

The plane hit a spot of mild turbulence, dipping and bouncing for a moment, causing Clay's head to roll with the movement.

Trent reached out quickly to steady him, a careful hand on either side of his face – feeling the dampness of tears against his palms.

Clay's eyes fell closed, bobbed open again. His gaze caught on Trent and he grimaced slightly. "I pass out again?"

Trent's breath caught, relief tingling through him. Clay's tone was normal again. He swallowed back the shakiness around the edges of his words. "Something like that," he replied, tone more fragile than he would have liked.

Sonny materialized. "He okay?" His eyes swung between Trent and their boy. "Anything I can do?"

Trent shook his thoughts into focus, clearing his uncomfortable-feeling throat. He nodded at his hands. "Hold his head still for me?"

Sonny quickly stepped in, leaning closer to Clay. "Hey, Blondilocks," he murmured. "Keep those peepers open, okay?"

Clay didn't reply.

Trent swallowed back his rising anxiety. _File it away_ , he ordered himself, drawing a steadying breath.

Just because Clay seemed to be slipping backwards and forwards between reality and the inside of his head, didn't mean that Trent could afford to do the same. He needed to focus on his job, get Clay to proper medical care.

There would be time for panic later.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so so much for the encouragement everyone :) And, can I just say - SEASON 4! Woohoo! (I'm just a wee bit excited!) Thanks again for reading x

Cold seven AM air rushed in to bite at Trent's face as the C-17's ramp was lowered. Golden rays stretched across the tarmac, catching on tall stalks of dry, seeding grass.

It was the type of morning that he'd normally love to come home to. The smell of jet fuel, the sound of the aircraft's engines shutting down, everyone getting ready to dump their gear and grab a well-deserved hot shower, a sleep in their own beds.

Trent's fingers tightened on the metal bar at the side of the gurney.

A shower would have to wait, as would the comfort of his bed.

Glancing down, he noticed Clay's face scrunch against the morning chill, muscles stiffen. Hastily, he tucked the blankets tighter, rubbed Clay's closest arm in a feeble attempt to keep him both awake, and warm.

On the opposite side of the gurney, Sonny continued to spout random reassurances, reminding Clay to behave at the hospital, not give the nurses a hard time; that he, and the rest of the guys, would come as soon as they could.

Trent blinked into the brightness.

Two EMTs jogged up the ramp.

They exchanged a clipped greeting, before Trent briefed them on Clay's condition.

Medical terms were thrown back and forth, and Trent noticed Clay trying unsuccessfully to track their conversation. He rested a reassuring hand upon their boy's chest. "You're good," he comforted. "I got you."

Leaving Sonny behind, he accompanied them as they wheeled Clay down the ramp, towards a waiting ambulance. He threw a quick salute over his shoulder, acknowledging Jason's yell to keep them updated.

Clay attempted to tell Trent that he was fine to go to the hospital alone.

But Trent just patted his arm, effectively ignoring the suggestion.

Clay quickly gave up, stilling once more.

The EMTs pushed the gurney from the sides. Trent walked at the back, closest to Clay's head. He watched as the injured man's eyelids bobbed heavily; heatless morning sun glittering off his lashes.

They loaded Clay into the ambulance. Trent climbed up into the back, turning and closing each of the doors behind him, shutting out the cold and the sounds of the airfield. Through the narrow panes of glass, he could see his brothers disembarking the plane, gear already being unloaded around them.

The ambulance shuddered as the engine started. They pulled away – the tarmac receding behind them into the morning glare.

Clay swung in and out of awareness during the drive, but thankfully didn't slip back into the past.

Trent was technically now off duty, however he kept one eye firmly fixed on their boy - tracking and monitoring the care that was being administered, listening in as their approach was radioed through to the hospital.

He leaned back against his uncomfortable seat, feeling the engine's vibrations through his back. His mind finally took a moment to register his own aches and pains; the scratchiness of his eyes, the heaviness of fatigue.

He would rest once Clay was situated. Not before.

Absently, he rubbed at his exposed forearm, noticing for the first time that it was peppered with shallow grazes and dirt – most likely a result of his unexpected dive onto the unforgiving Havana pavement. Snagging his sleeve, he shimmied it back down to his wrist, covering up the mess. He did the same on the other side.

It hadn't escaped his attention that Clay had saved his ass with the tackle. He would be sure to thank the kid later – just another notch in the never ending I-owe-you-one tally that Bravo, and so many other teams, carried around.

Pulling up to the hospital, Trent felt a small weight lift from within him. Though it was quickly replaced by something heavier, as he wondered just how many times he'd rocked up with an injured brother after an op gone bad.

 _Too many_.

Another silent tally, with no end in sight.

Climbing down to the asphalt outside the ED, Trent felt his stiff muscles protest. He helped unload the gurney, leaning in and reassuring Clay that he was still there, wasn't going anywhere.

Clay groaned against the bright lights of the foyer as they entered. For a moment, Trent worried the younger man would be sick again, but thankfully that was avoided.

Through the foyer, and on through some swinging double doors. Trent walked alongside the gurney where he knew Clay could see him. The corridor ahead was long, stark, and lined with doorways. Machines beeped, alarms rang, and nurses hurried about. And then, there was that unmistakable smell.

If fear, despair, and hopelessness had a smell, Trent was sure that, combined, they would equal the aroma of a hospital.

His chest tightened, and he braced himself against the familiar wave of discomfort that washed through him - the same wave that threatened every time he set foot in a medical center. He was probably the only medic in the world who hated these places, he mused.

This one, in particular, harbored some very uncomfortable memories for him.

As if the universe suddenly conspired to rattle him some more, the EMTs led the gurney into a small room, where a familiar silver-haired doctor was waiting to assess Clay.

Trent's insides jumped – though thankfully he managed to keep it from his face.

The doctor's eyes skipped from his patient to Trent, and recognition flared. "Well, well," he stated cheerily. "Mister Sawyer." A smile lit his face. "It sure has been a while."

Trent shifted, returning the smile – hoping it didn't look as strained as it felt. "Doctor Richards," he greeted, dousing the spark that threatened to ignite a fireball of memories within him. Last he'd heard, the friendly doctor had transferred to a hospital in New York.

There was a lot that could have been exchanged – pleasantries, updates on Trent's life and career, all that had taken place over the past fifteen years. But they were both professionals. A casual chat wasn't on the cards right now - for which Trent was secretly grateful.

"So, what do we have here," Doctor Richards stated, grabbing a sheet of paper from one of the EMTs and skimming over it. He smiled down at Clay, eyes warm in a way that Trent remembered well. "Seems that you've had a nasty bump to the head, young man."

Trent couldn't help the tug of his lips. The older man knew their profession, and yet wasn't at all intimidated. His silver hair might have been slightly shinier and a tad whiter than it was when Trent had been the one in the hospital bed, but his bedside manner hadn't changed in the least. How a doctor could manage to stay that positive for so long, Trent had no idea.

Medical jargon was thrown around, and Trent took a moment to catch Clay's foggy gaze. "All good, buddy," he comforted. "Not long now and you'll be able to take a nap."

An MRI was arranged, and Trent was directed to wait in the room while Clay was taken for the scan.

Before the gurney was wheeled out, Trent caught Doctor Richards' elbow. "Hey," he said quietly, glancing between Clay and the older man. "Do you think you could arrange an x-ray of his left wrist, while you've got him?"

The doctor frowned, re-checked the notes.

Trent quickly filled in the blanks. "He was holding it like he'd injured it," he explained. "But when I checked it over, it seemed fine." He didn't want to have to go into too many details. He was hoping that the doctor might do it as a favor. "I just want to make sure I haven't missed anything," he clarified. "To be thorough, you know."

Understanding settled over the doctor's features. "Sure," he replied. "I'll sort that for you."

Trent offered his thanks, grateful that an argument hadn't been required. He wasn't sure he had one left in him.

The doctor went to leave, but Trent stopped him once more. "He's, uh - he's been pretty disoriented," he warned, tone betraying his concern. "If he becomes distressed …"

The doctor gave Trent's shoulder a reassuring pat. "I'll send for you straight away." His words were genuine. Smiling once more, he exited the room.

Trent sank down into a plastic chair. His bones creaked as he leaned forward, elbows on knees. Resting his face against his palms, he counted breaths through the space between his fingers.

After a moment, he dropped his hands, leaning back with a sigh and stretching his legs ahead of him.

He was gritty, bone-weary, and on edge. The silence of the room was unsettling - but focusing on the sounds of the ED department beyond the door left him equally as tense. Fishing his phone from his pocket, he settled for sending his brothers an update as a way of distracting himself.

However, once the message was sent, his thoughts returned to their cacophony.

He groaned audibly.

Swinging between Clay's past and present was one thing. Add in the unexpected blast from his own past, and Trent felt like he was trapped on an unwelcome, confusing merry-go-round, with no idea how to make it stop.

 _File it away, Sawyer_.

God, how many times had he said that to himself, over the years?

STSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTST

MRI complete, Clay was cleared of any skull fractures. He was diagnosed with a severe concussion, and the initial plan was for him to stay in the hospital for at least the next week as he recovered. After that, he would be allowed to go home - so long as he had someone stay with.

(Cue, Bravo arguing over who would be best suited to 'babysit', once that time arrived.)

Trent stood in the waiting room, hands on hips, his brothers gathered around him. They'd all been in to see Clay, resulting in some of their previous tension dissipating.

Blackburn and Davis had popped by, not wanting to head home without first checking in on their youngest man.

It had been decided that someone would stay with Clay in the hospital for at least the first day, until they were sure he was settled, and understood exactly where he was.

Trent made it clear that he would take the first shift.

Jason shook his head. "You're exhausted. You should go home. I'll stay."

Sonny folded his arms, disagreeing. "Didn't you say Emma was coming by? I'll stay with the kid, the rest of you can pick a number."

Ray made some argument about hanging around so that he could catch Naima once she finished her shift. "The kids are sorted. Let me stay."

Brock just hung back, slightly amused. "I have no plans," he added.

But Trent refused to budge. "I'm good," he stated. And then spun some half-truth about wanting to speak with Clay's doctor again, the next time he came around.

Sonny's brow remained furrowed. "You stink. You need a shower," he pushed.

Trent stood firm. "I'll rinse off. There's a shower in Clay's room."

"You're a stubborn bastard, you know that?" Jason muttered, but there was warmth between the words.

Trent huffed.

So he'd been told.

Jason flicked a glance at his watch. "It's nine-thirty now." His gaze skipped to Sonny. "We'll do six-hour shifts. Ray can come by at three-thirty. Then I'll be here at nine-thirty. Then Sonny. Then Brock."

If Sonny was bothered about being given the middle of the night shift, he didn't let it show. Just lightly grumbled his agreement.

Trent nodded, relieved. He was too tired for a fight, for lengthy explanations. He wanted to keep an eye on Clay to make sure that the kid's mind stayed firmly in the present – a detail which he wasn't quite ready to discuss with the others. _It's not yours to discuss_ , his inner voice reminded him sternly.

Not wanting to hang around much longer, lest any of the guys pick up on his emotional discomfort, he said his goodbyes and excused himself quickly, heading for the relative safety of Clay's room.

"Keep us updated," Jason called after him, more out of habit than necessity.

Trent flicked a wave, acknowledging the request.

Once he was down the corridor and out of view, Trent paused, leaning against a wall for a moment and scrubbing a hand over his tired eyes. Letting his gaze drift to the ceiling, the fluorescent lights, he took a few steadying breaths.

He felt like he was keeping a secret from the handful of people who meant the most to him. It wasn't sitting right. And yet, it really wasn't his place to let them peek into Clay's disturbing childhood window, without their boy's permission.

He could only imagine what his brothers' reactions would be, what assumptions they would make. Most likely the same as him – although Sonny would be out for blood, and likely Jason wouldn't be far behind.

No. He wasn't about to rip the scab off that wound, on Clay's behalf. The kid might never forgive him. And then, he wouldn't be able to forgive himself.

Continuing along the corridor, Trent attempted once more to push his worries aside. But they were like apples in water, bobbing up and breaking the surface whenever his focus slipped.

Returning to Clay's room, he slipped in quietly and took up position beside the bed in yet another uncomfortable chair. Eyes skimming over monitors, he checked his little brother's vitals out of habit.

Clay's face was pale, still with sleep. A bulky bandage covered the wound on his forehead, and his curls stuck up at all angles out the top of it. He looked peaceful, shrunken, and frighteningly young.

Trent reached out, clasping Clay's hand and gently intertwining their fingers.

Clay's palm was warm against his.

The monitors sang, beeping out their incessant tune. A thin blanket rose and fell subtly where it lay across Clay's gown-covered chest.

Trent held the younger man's hand a moment longer, before sighing and sitting back. Reaching down beside the rolling side table, he snagged a large envelope and brought it to his lap.

He drew out a single x-ray film, held it up to the dim light.

Doctor Richards had handed it to him, once they'd brought Clay back to the room after the MRI. "No obvious trauma to the left wrist," he'd reported. "But evidence of a previous fracture."

Trent's stomach had clenched, and he'd raised a brow. "Can you tell how long ago?"

The doctor had blown out a breath, offered a light shake of his head. "Hard to say," he'd replied. "If I had to guess, I'd suggest some time in his early childhood."

Trent had tightened his grip on the envelope, disguising his shaking fingers, uneasiness prickling through him.

The older man thankfully hadn't noticed. "It's good to see you again, you know," he'd said cheerfully, suddenly steering the conversation in a different direction. "I heard you were operating again, had become a medic."

Trent had swiftly dragged his thoughts into order, plastering a tight half-smile in return.

"That's wonderful," the doctor had stated, still grinning. And then he'd added, more seriously, "Your men are lucky to have you. Your determination, your fight – I'd imagine that's an asset to any team."

Trent had felt his throat constrict. He'd never been good with compliments, especially ones that knocked against the most fragile parts of him.

He'd thanked the man again, and had sat quietly, reflecting, after the doctor had left the room.

Now, he let his gaze drift over bed, TV, blind-covered window. Every room here looked the same. How many had he been shuffled between?

 _Too fucking many_.

His heart beat against his ribs, like a frantic moth in a glass jar.

Fifteen years ago, he'd spent a hell of a long time in this very hospital, with a blown-up arm and no clue as to whether he would ever make it back into the field. He'd damn near lost himself in those endless, dark days – and would have, most likely, if it hadn't been for the unwavering encouragement from a handful of people, like Doctor Richards.

In the wake of his accident, he'd obsessively researched medical procedures, field medicine, trauma response. It was a coping mechanism, as he'd tried to make sense of what had happened to him. A desperate attempt to put himself back together.

He'd clawed and fought his way back into the field, landing a place on Bravo not long after Sonny. He'd pushed himself to be more focused, resilient, and stronger than before; embracing the things that made him feel the most uncomfortable, in the hope that they would bring him the most growth. Falling into the role of team medic had been one of those.

There were many moments, he would admit, when he truly hated it. Every time he treated a team mate's injury, every time he set foot inside a medical center or hospital, he felt his past come crashing back into him.

And yet, in a strange way, each time it did, he healed just that little bit more.

Trent blew out a shaky breath, willing his fluttering heart calm.

Staring another moment at the x-ray, he couldn't help but picture a terrified, four-year-old Clay cowering against a wall, sobbing, and cradling a broken wrist. Unlikely broken by accident, he thought darkly, an image of Ash floating into his mind.

Gaze wandering between the x-ray and his sleeping brother, he wondered just how many more terrifying childhood memories Clay carted around. They all knew that the relationship between the younger and older Spenser was strained, but Trent hadn't fully understood the depth of that strain, until now.

Quickly slipping the x-ray back into its envelope, he leaned down and placed it upon the floor by his chair leg – as if hoping that by putting it out of sight, his thoughts might follow.

" _Does he know?"_

" _Does he know about what, buddy?"_

" _That I was bad. And I … lost Quack."_

During Clay's most recent flashback, he'd referred to Blackburn by their commander's first name. In all the time Clay had been with Bravo, Trent had never heard the him do that. The logical conclusion was that Clay had somehow met Eric, back when Ash Spenser and Blackburn had been team mates. Something told him that perhaps their CO might be able to shed some light on the mysterious 'Quack'.

Absently rubbing fingers over his short beard, Trent debated whether he should open that can of worms with Blackburn or not. His gaze settled upon Clay's peaceful, sleeping form. It still didn't feel right involving a third party, in an issue that wasn't his to call the shots on. This was extremely sensitive, and personal to Clay. No matter which way he looked at it, Trent felt like the appropriate course of action would be to try to talk with Clay first.

Feeling a new wave of fatigue wash over him, he had to accept that a coherent conversation with Bravo Six wouldn't happen any time soon. Shifting in his seat, he did his best to find a comfortable position – finally settling for slouched, with his head resting back against the wall.

It took a while, but eventually Trent drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Some time later, his eyes cracked open and he blinked around blearily, searching for what had woken him. His first thought was that Clay had stirred – but a glance towards the bed revealed that his little brother was still out.

Stretching out his horribly stiff neck, his gaze landed on a lidded take-out cup, placed upon the side table. His brow furrowed. It hadn't been there previously. Reaching out a hand, he lifted it, noting it was still warm. A handwritten note was tucked under it.

_Brought you real coffee, but didn't want to wake you. Just came to check in. Left something else outside the door that you might like. Naima._

Trent sniffed the coffee, took a tentative sip. Warmth traveled through him, and a smile passed over his lips. Replacing the note on the table, he pushed up from the chair and made his way to the door. Opening it as quietly as he could, he peered into the corridor.

A chair, much more comfortable looking than the one he'd been trying to sleep in, was sitting against the wall, with a pillow and folded blanked resting on top, with another small, folded note.

_Can't have you breaking your back. Get some proper rest. I'll check back again soon. N._

He allowed another smile, the thoughtful gesture working its magic to chase away a fraction of his troubles.

At least for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a side note, if you haven't read Tyler Grey's story, go do yourself a favour. The guy is pretty amazing and I have a lot of respect for him. I wouldn't have used it in a story, because it's real, but the show made reference to it recently, so I feel okay about it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much again for reading. And thank you so much to everyone who's left comments - as always, the encouragement is greatly appreciated! I hope wherever you are, you're staying safe and well :)

**Five Days Later**

Trent cracked open the door to Clay's room, peering in tentatively, not wanting to wake him if he was sleeping.

But Clay was propped up on pillows, staring aimlessly out the window. Blue eyes swung towards the door, taking a moment to focus. A tired smile broke across his lips. "Yo." His voice was small, croaky.

Trent opened the door the rest of the way, stepping into the room – motioning Clay to stay put when the younger man attempted to push himself up straighter. "Hey," he greeted, moving up beside the bed, returning the smile. "How you feeling?"

Clay shifted. Winced. Blew out a shaky breath. "Oh, you know," he replied flatly, lifting his canula-free hand and gesturing vaguely about the room. "Bored." The bulky bandage had vanished from around his forehead, replaced by a smaller, rectangular patch. His hair still stuck up at all angles, messed from sleep.

Trent huffed. He could imagine. "Doc says you're doing well," he offered, trying for encouragement. He fished his keys from his back pocket, placed them on the side table, before lowering himself into the room's solitary chair – the same one Naima had brought the first night.

Clay gave him a slitted side-glance, which Trent guessed may have been a failed attempt at an eye roll. "Better when I'm out of here," he muttered.

Trent sighed. He got it, he really did. He'd been there. Ever since Manila, Clay's acceptance of any setback, no matter how minor, was fragile, at best.

He watched as Clay fiddled with the edge of the blanket, chewing at his chapped bottom lip. Jason wasn't the only one who caught glimpses of a younger version of himself in Bravo Six.

Pale sunlight spilled over the sill of the large window, blinds raised to reveal the crisp morning beyond the glass. Blue skies for days. Trent had ridden here, not wanting to pass up the chance for fresh air. He'd been riding a lot lately; an attempt to clear his head.

It hadn't worked.

Bravo hadn't been spun up again since Cuba. Trent imagined Clay was probably grateful. There was nothing worse than being stuck on the sidelines, knowing your team was off kicking in doors. It was a sure-fire way to drive any frogman crazy – let alone one who carried the scars of being hopelessly holed up for months on end, like Clay did.

Trent, on the other hand, could have used the distraction of a spin-up. Going between home, base, and the hospital had allowed him way too much time to over-think. And he _excelled_ in the art of over-thinking.

Attempting to slap his thoughts in order, he leaned forward, elbows on knees.

Today was the day. Every other visit he'd made, Clay was either asleep, or too groggy. It was time to have a chat; test the water, so to speak.

"I, uh," he started, tripping over the first few words. Cleared his throat. "You know, I'm grateful you shoved me out of the way, before that grenade went off. I haven't said thank you."

Clay pulled his gaze from the blanket edge, blue eyes still cloudy. "You carried me out of there. Think that makes us even."

Trent's mind traveled back to the abandoned shop, Clay's tear-streaked face. "Do you, uh, remember anything, from before we made it to exfil?" He hoped that his tone didn't betray his nerves.

Thankfully, Clay didn't seem to pick up on the tension lining the question. With a slightly furrowed brow, he managed a minute shake of his head. "Bits of the flight home," he admitted. Thought on it a moment longer. Grimaced. "Lots of vomit."

Trent must have allowed some emotion to pass over his features, because Clay misinterpreted, a blush suddenly coloring his cheeks. "I embarrass myself?" he asked, almost fearfully.

Trent shook him off, squeezing a smile. "All good," he reassured.

But Clay didn't look convinced, kept his eyes on Trent's expression, as if trying to work out whether it was a lie - something Sonny might potentially give him shit for later.

Trent took a steadying breath, desperately wanting to backtrack out of the conversation instead of pushing forward. "You, uh, you came to a couple of times before we made it to the plane," he revealed, subtly gauging Clay's reaction.

Clay's gaze wandered, as if searching for the memory. Drew a blank. Almost irritably, he shook his head. "I got nothing."

The last thing Trent wanted was to distress his little brother, so he tried for light-hearted, forcing a small smile – despite his heart feeling anything _but_ light. "I wouldn't imagine you'd remember," he comforted. "You were pretty out of it. You said something about, uh," he swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat. "Something called 'Quack'?"

Again, Clay's expression remained blank. He let out a nervous laugh. "What?"

Trent allowed a small laugh in return, just as nervous – the pit in his stomach swirling at Clay's complete lack of recognition at the mention of 'Quack'. Deciding to push his luck, he handed over another piece of potentially triggering information. "You, uh, you were holding your left wrist, like it hurt," he said, words a little unsteady.

Clay's gaze floated downwards, settling on the joint in question, before bouncing back to Trent. Once again, confusion rippled across his features.

"I had your doctor do an x-ray," Trent admitted, not wanting to pause, lest he lose momentum – and his nerve. "I couldn't find anything wrong with it, but I wanted to be sure I hadn't missed anything."

Clay gently flexed the fingers of his left hand. Gave a small wave. "Seems … fine?"

Trent bit his bottom lip, nodded slowly. "The, uh -" he cleared his throat, gathered himself. "The x-ray showed some evidence of an old fracture." Studying Clay's reaction, he was troubled to see puzzlement once again.

Clay opened his mouth, forehead creasing. Shook his head. And then said what Trent was dreading. "But I've never broken my wrist."

A chill traveled through Trent's chest. He tried to hide it, but even in Clay's still lightly dazed state, the discomfort must have been evident. Because the younger man quirked a lip, huffed. "Pretty sure I'd remember breaking it."

Trent scratched at his forehead, feeling slightly ill. "I double-checked your medical file, back on base. It wasn't noted as part of your medical history, so I thought it was … strange."

In a pocket between breaths, a slight shadow ghosted Clay's features.

Another chill prickled through Trent. "The doc was pretty confident it was an old break," he spoke cautiously. And then, even more gently. "Perhaps it happened when you were really young?" Another tiny push. "Maybe the knock to the head brought back, uh, a memory?"

Clay's face was already pale. It blanched further.

Trent braced himself, unsure whether he'd pushed too hard. Bravo Six could be unpredictable in moments like this – go too hard, and the kid would shut himself up tighter than Fort Knox.

The younger man closed his eyes briefly, drew a shaky breath.

Trent wasn't prepared for what came next.

"I, uh," Clay started, seeming to search for the right words. Again, a small, nervous laugh broke his lips. He shook his head, wincing slightly at the movement. "I can't really remember much, before I was about five, you know."

Trent had to replay the admission, it caught him so off guard. He'd expected Clay to either explode with anger and demand Trent back off - or deny anything was wrong and lock his secrets further away. He fumbled for a response.

Clay appeared embarrassed. "I mean," he clarified, voice small. "I remember being sent to live with my grandparents. Getting on the plane. Most stuff after that." He broke eye contact, fiddling with the edge of the blanket again; gathering it, releasing it, gathering, releasing. "I, uh, I don't recall much before then. I have bits and pieces, like what my grandparents told me. But …" He swallowed jaggedly, waved a hand. "No true memories." And then he added, almost as if to himself. "Although you'd think I'd remember a broken wrist, right?"

Trent found himself absently nodding, thoughts stampeding. He drew a grounding breath, attempting to disguise his worry.

Clay's brow remained pinched, and the beeping from his heartrate monitor gained momentum. He continued to fiddle with the blanket in his lap.

It didn't take a medic to recognize that perhaps it was time to put the brakes on their conversation.

Trent hastily switched gears. "Hey," he offered lightly, drawing himself together and reaching out to rub Clay's arm. "All good." He steeled his words as best he could. "Just thought I'd mention it, that's all." Giving Clay's arm a light squeeze, he pushed a calm smile. "We don't need to get into it."

Clay bobbed his head in agreement, although he didn't look so certain.

Trent's thoughts crashed together, snowballing. He managed to plaster on another reassuring smile. The room suddenly felt too small, stuffy. He shifted in his seat.

Thankfully, the door popped open, and Sonny stuck his head in.

Bravo Three wasn't known for great timing, but Trent would give him this one.

Upon seeing Clay awake, the Texan cracked a smile, slipped into the room. "Well, good morning there, Bam Bam," he greeted cheerfully. His gaze skipped to Trent, and he offered a nod. "Grumplestiltskin."

Trent arched a brow.

Sonny approached the bed, shrugged. "What? You've been wearing your 'Mom frown' damn near every time I've seen you lately."

That drew a chuckle from Clay.

Trent didn't take the bait, just rolled his eyes. Snagging his keys from the side table, he pushed up from the chair, grateful for the excuse to leave. He wasn't feeling good. Casting a look at Clay, he noted the younger man's heavy lids, his slight squint against the lights. He speared Sonny with a look. "Don't keep him up, if he wants to sleep."

Sonny muttered his agreement.

"And maybe close the blinds," Trent instructed, scowling as the Texan snagged the seat nearly before he was fully out of the way. "It might be too glary."

Sonny offered a mildly amused salute. "I got this," he reassured.

 _That's what I'm afraid of_ , Trent thought wearily.

It had been agreed that Clay would stay at Sonny's, once he was released from the hospital in a couple of days. It was a decision that was adding to Trent's already rising anxiety.

"Hey, Trent," Clay said quietly, his words somewhat slurred. "Thanks for coming by."

Trent squeezed another smile, nodded. Disguised the clench of his stomach as he thought back over their conversation. "Take it easy," he advised. "I'll check in again soon." He pinned Sonny with one last warning look, before hastily stepping out of the room.

As he closed the door, he heard his two team mates launch into their usual banter, catching Sonny ask if Clay had saved him any jello – and Clay admitting he had a stash in the side table's top drawer.

Trent clicked the door closed, turning and leaning against the wall for a moment. A nurse hurried past, offering a bubbly, over-the-shoulder 'good morning', to which he nodded politely in return.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, his insides continued their frightful dance of dipping and clenching. He re-ran his recent conversation with his little brother through his wildly spinning mind.

It was one thing, having to keep Clay's secret from his team mates.

It was another, entirely, if it turned out he was also keeping it from _Clay_.

STSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTST

Trent rode. He rode for a solid two hours. None of Bravo were required on base today, and he couldn't think of anything worse than heading straight home.

He lapped well-worn roads, pulling into his favorite parking lot by the ocean. He sat, straddling his motorbike, staring out to the glittering sea. Flipping the visor up on his helmet, he drew some deep breaths of cool, salty air.

It didn't help.

He felt suffocated. Claustrophobic. Trapped.

He'd faced his fair share of heavy situations – difficult calls out in the field when someone's life hung in the balance; or losing someone, despite his best efforts. He'd always had some idea of how to proceed.

This felt different.

Clay wasn't _just_ another casualty. Clay was his team mate, his brother, his _friend_ – with a wound that Trent didn't automatically know how to fix. It was a considerable weight, realizing that he'd stumbled upon something from Clay's past, that the younger man himself didn't even seem to be aware of.

Feeling lost, Trent fished out his cell phone. With slightly trembling fingers, he Googled 'repressed memories'.

Hitting 'search' felt uncomfortable, despite the fact that the thought had already been swimming around his mind. Focusing on it suddenly made it feel frighteningly real.

_Avoidance gets you nowhere, Sawyer._

He swallowed jaggedly, scrolling through the search results. He was already out of his depth and floundering, what would it hurt to dive a little deeper. That holiday he'd been dreaming of, back in Cuba, was now less than a blip on the horizon. But this was Clay, and no matter how uncomfortable Trent felt, skipping out on the kid wasn't an option.

Once he'd sufficiently overwhelmed himself, he hastily locked his phone and zipped it back into his jacket pocket, out of sight. Unfortunately, what he'd read remained far from out of mind.

He had originally thought that Clay had been secretly carrying around a load of traumatic memories. Now, he realized that it was likely an invisible load – buried so deep that even Clay wasn't aware of it. Which was so, so much worse.

Trent was low on fuel and riding around in circles wasn't going to get him anywhere – both figuratively, and literally. With one last glance towards the shimmering sea, he flicked down his visor, turned the motorbike around in a wide arc, and reluctantly headed for home.

Brock was waiting when he arrived, sitting patiently on the porch steps.

Wheels bumping over the gentle lip of his driveway, Trent brought the bike alongside his truck, and cut the engine. His muscles were stiff as he swung a leg over, pulling his helmet off and hastily flattening his haphazard hair.

The sun was high in the sky, extra bright in the absence of clouds. Dried leaves scuttled and scraped along the pavement. There was no warmth to the day – a reminder that winter wasn't far around the corner. Shadows were long, the air just that little bit thinner.

Brock pushed himself to his feet, smiling warmly.

The smile was a façade, Trent realized. He could see through it. His friend was bothered. "What brings you to my door, on this fine day?" He greeted, mock-casually.

Brock raised a brow at Trent's tone, leaned against one of the porch posts with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Oh, you know," he replied, just as casually. "Just thought I'd check in."

Trent hooked a finger through the loop on his keyring, jingled the keys against his thigh, helmet wedged under his other arm.

Brock's dark eyes were intense.

Trent sighed, steeling himself for the real reason behind the unexpected visit.

"Sonny messaged me," Bravo Five finally admitted, briefly breaking eye contact and gently scuffing the ground with the toe of his boot.

It was Trent's turn to raise a brow.

"He's noticed you've been broodier than normal," Brock continued, eyes tracking Trent's, as if gauging the reaction. He cleared his throat, pulled himself straighter. "And I agree."

Trent twitched a lip. _Broody?_

"You've been off," Brock pressed, though his tone remained gentle, cautious. "Ever since Cuba."

Trent went to argue, but he could already tell that Brock wouldn't buy whatever lie he tried to spin. Instead, he opted for blowing out a heavy breath, leaning against the opposite porch post – his gaze tracking a bee, as it danced lazily between the yellow dandelion flowers peppering his lawn.

"Look," Brock said after a moment, running a hand through his dark curls. His chewed his lip, gaze settling somewhere out in the street. "I'm not going to demand you tell me what's going on." His eyes flicked briefly to Trent, away again. "So long as you know you _can,_ if you want to. And I know the rest of the guys would say the same."

Trent released a portion of the breath he'd been holding. He knew. And he appreciated it. Brock wasn't one to prod and probe, and normally Trent wouldn't have any issues opening up to his closest friend. But …

He just couldn't. Not this time.

A handful of beats passed, silence hanging heavily between them. Trent shifted awkwardly. The last thing he wanted was to upset Brock. He was grateful for the concern – from Sonny as well. Despite the Texan's occasional jibes, the man always had Trent's back. All of them always had each other's backs – that's what team guys did; what brothers did.

Skipping his gaze to meet Brock's, he was once again reminded of the sheer weight of what he was carrying. There was nothing he wanted more than to offload. But, the reality was that if Clay couldn't remember anything from before the age of five, then it suggested that those early years were possibly so traumatic for him, that his brain had locked the memories away. And Trent needed to tread very, very carefully with that information – even more so than he'd initially thought.

Possibly sensing Trent wasn't about to lower his defenses, Brock shifted, sighing in quiet defeat.

Trent didn't meet his eyes. He didn't want to see the disappointment.

"If you wont talk to me," Brock said eventually. "Will you at least promise me one thing?"

Trent cast a side-glance at his best friend.

"Promise me you'll talk to _someone._ "

Trent swallowed roughly, took a steadying breath. He gave a small nod of agreement.

"You insist on carrying the weight of the world sometimes, you know," Brock continued, tone a combination of concern and thoughtfulness. "I worry about you."

Trent felt his shoulders slump. He didn't like the idea of Brock carting around unnecessary worry for him.

"Whatever's eating at you," Brock finished. "Don't carry it alone, okay? It's dangerous."

Trent's chest tightened. He understood what Brock was saying. They couldn't afford any distractions in their line of work. Distractions got people killed.

Silence hung between them for another few moments, each blinking out into the brightness of the day.

Brock was the one who broke the silence. "So," he said, his tone suggesting a change of direction. "I'm starving. Feel like grabbing some lunch?"

Trent hesitated. Part of him wanted to be alone, but he was reluctant to set off any more alarm bells for his brother. Hesitantly, he nodded.

"I promise we don't need to revisit this conversation," Brock assured. And then he added, a little hopefully. "Unless you want to."

Trent squeezed a smile. He didn't want to, but he recognized the truth in what Brock had said. He _did_ have a bad habit of shouldering his worries alone, and it rarely ended well – examples of which were his failed marriage, and the semi-recent departure of his latest girlfriend.

He needed to talk to someone about his concerns for Clay. But, unfortunately, that person couldn't be any of his brothers.

Thankfully, he had someone in mind.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has broken my brain, just a little bit! Thank you so so much again for all the lovely comments and encouragement. I'm most definitely out of my comfort zone here, but I feel like this story is just as much Trent's as it is Clay's - even though I find Clay a lot easier to write! Thanks again for reading :)

The following day, after Bravo had finished up running some drills on base, Trent hung back. Thankfully his team mates all had somewhere to be – Jason had a Skype date with Mikey, Ray had a once-in-a-blue-moon romantic dinner planned with Naima, Sonny had to go tidy his apartment ready for Clay's arrival the next day, and Brock had a routine visit with Cerb to the vet.

Trent finished up in the cage room, before pacing the corridors a coupe of times, pulling his nerves together.

He'd spent a good part of the last day trying to convince himself that perhaps it was better to let sleeping dogs lie. After all, sleeping dogs couldn't bite, or rip you to shreds. He'd spent enough time with Cerberus to appreciate the damage an awakened dog could do. Don't poke the bear, upset the apple cart, all that jazz.

But, wounds left untreated only festered. It might be a slow process, but it was a sure thing. Clay didn't even realize he was injured. Trent was the only one who had seen the wound, and, medic or not, as Clay's friend he had a duty of care not to ignore it.

Finishing his final nervous corridor lap, he pulled up outside a closed door. Drawing a grounding breath, he raised a sweaty-palmed hand and knocked.

There was an anxious pause, before a voice called for him to enter.

Trent pushed open the door, stepping just within the doorway.

Blackburn was sitting at his desk, pen in hand, scowling at a fat pile of paperwork. Glancing up to see Trent, he froze, expression shifting from tired - to something resembling barely concealed wariness. Hesitating a moment, he motioned for Trent to enter.

Trent closed the door, feeling very much like he had just sealed himself off from escape.

"At ease," Blackburn stated, possibly picking up on Trent's rigidity. He placed his pen down on the desk, gestured for Bravo Four to take a seat.

Trent sat, albeit a little stiffly.

Blackburn leaned forward, clasping his hands atop his desk and regarding his team's medic. "So," he said, after a moment. "It's not often you knock on my door. On a scale of one to September twenty-fourteen, how worried should I be?" His words were light, but his tone betrayed his uneasiness.

Trent flinched internally at the reference to the one time, six years ago, he'd barreled into the commander's office, demanding to be stood down.

Bravo had just returned from an op-gone-bad, multiple civilian casualties – including a heavily pregnant woman whom Trent hadn't been able to save, despite his best efforts. He'd been in a bad headspace already, fresh off the heels of his marriage breakdown. His failures out in the field that day had been the straw that broke the camel's back. Thankfully, Blackburn had seen the disintegration of Trent's confidence for what it was - assigning him leave, instead of supporting his unstable request to leave Bravo; ordering him to speak with a psychologist before he made any rash decisions.

" _Everyone needs a breather sometimes. You don't stop to take a breath – you drown."_

Trent had always been grateful for the grace and understanding Blackburn had shown him that day. It was one thing that set their CO apart from others. He wasn't just a guy at the top, barking orders. He deeply cared about and respected his men; and in turn, his men deeply cared about and respected him.

Trent fidgeted, despite his best efforts not to. "I, uh," he supplied. "I need to talk to you about something … sensitive."

Blackburn pursed his lips. Any hope he'd had of this being a casual chat evaporated from his features. Nodding and pushing up from his chair, he walked over and flicked the lock on the door.

Trent appreciated the gesture.

The commander made his way back to his chair and dropped himself into it, pushing aside his pile of paperwork and giving Trent his full attention.

Trent's voice stuck. He'd rehearsed this a thousand times, and still he didn't quite know how to begin. He settled for simple and to-the-point. "It's about Clay."

Blackburn raised a brow, waited patiently for Trent to continue.

"Something happened, when we were in Cuba." The ball was rolling now, and there was no turning back. "There was an incident, while we were holed up, waiting to make it to exfil."

Blackburn furrowed his brow. "I don't recall there being anything in the AAR." It was his subtle way of asking whether this was something serious that had been omitted deliberately, something that could potentially lead to a major headache.

Trent quickly brushed the concern aside, shaking his head. "It wasn't in the report," he confirmed, "because I didn't feel that it was important in relation to the mission."

Blackburn's brow relaxed slightly, though some of the creases remained. Trent briefly wondered just how many forehead creases Bravo had given their CO, over the years.

"We got off the street, sought cover," Trent recalled. His hands were shaking - a problem he solved by promptly sitting on them. "Clay regained consciousness, while I was checking him over."

Blackburn's gaze was steady, patient.

"But he wasn't _present_ ," Trent admitted. "He was stuck in a flashback, from when he was four years old." He pulled a hand out and scrubbed it over his face, unsettled by just how rattled he still felt from the episode. "He was, uh, reliving something that happened to him." Pausing, he swallowed roughly. Blew out a breath. "It wasn't good."

Worry flickered over Blackburn's features. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. "What do you mean, it _wasn't good_?"

Trent slowly shook his head, eyes distant. His gaze eventually settled on a spot on the far wall. "He was … crying, shaking," Trent explained, finding it difficult to get the words over his lips. "He was clutching his wrist, like it hurt, telling me about some accident he'd had, spilling some juice, panicking that his Dad was mad …"

At the mention of Ash Spenser, Blackburn's shoulders stiffened slightly.

Trent refocused his gaze, set it on the older man. "If I could sum up how he looked, I would say _terrified_." He chewed the inside of his cheek, shook his head jerkily as he pictured Clay cowering against the wall, knees drawn. "I checked his wrist, but I couldn't find any obvious damage. I asked his doctor to do an x-ray, when Clay was taken for the MRI. It showed that, uh …" his voice faltered. Grabbing it back, he admitted, "There was evidence of a previous break. Something his doc guessed happened when Clay was really young."

Blackburn was a smart man. A shadow settled behind his eyes as he put the pieces together. "You're thinking it wasn't an accident."

Trent felt his stomach clench – a common occurrence over this past week. He slowly bobbed his head. "The way he acted, the fear in his voice – it was obvious he was reliving an extremely traumatic moment."

Blackburn inhaled shakily, obviously unsettled by what Trent was implying. He uncrossed his arms, sat up straight, and scrubbed a hand over his eyes, letting it come to rest over his mouth as he processed the information.

Trent gathered himself. There was more to tell. He pushed onwards. "He kept asking for something - a toy I'm guessing. Something that was special to him. Something that his Dad took away as punishment. Something called 'Quack'."

Trent watched carefully, not missing the subtle flinch of recognition that played over Backburn's features. Keeping his voice steady, he said, "I'm hoping there's a chance you might be able to shed some light on that?" It was a bold question, but Trent asked it all the same.

Filling in the gaps, Trent explained. "He had another flashback, on the flight home. He, uh, he saw you, and called you by your first name." In a smaller voice, he added, "He was worried you would be disappointed, that he'd lost Quack."

Something akin to sadness settled over Blackburn's face, tugging at the corners of his lips. And Trent would never call him out on it, but he noticed the sudden glassiness of the older man's stare.

Eventually, Blackburn gathered himself. "How did … -" he cleared his throat when his voice caught. Tried again. "How did Jason react?" And then, under his breath, "I'm surprised one of you hasn't been slapped with assault charges from going after Ash."

Trent bit his bottom lip, raked it under his top teeth. "The others don't know," he admitted. "I was the only one close enough to Clay, at the time, to hear what he said."

Blackburn's brow lifted.

"I haven't told them," Trent hurriedly explained, "because I _know_ how they would react. I needed to talk to someone level-headed, to help me figure out what the hell I should do." He sighed. "Since Clay made reference to you during his flashback, I decided you were probably the best person to come to. And besides," he exhaled jaggedly, "it's not my information to throw around. It's extremely personal. It feels wrong that I even have it."

Blackburn nodded his understanding. Trent could see the volume of emotion charging behind his eyes. "Have you spoken with Clay?"

 _Ah, here's the kicker_.

Trent slouched back in his chair, chewing on his lip so hard that it hurt. "I tried," he admitted, having trouble keeping his voice even. "I spoke with him yesterday, when I went to see him. I didn't want to distress him, so I just dropped some, uh, not-so-subtle hints." He shook his head, let out a broken piece of sound that could have been a half-sob. "He had no idea what I was talking about."

Blackburn pursed his lips, shrugged. "He has a concussion. It's likely he wouldn't remember having a flashback."

But Trent shook his head sadly. God, he wished it were that simple.

Blackburn narrowed his eyes, studying Bravo Four. "Something tells me I'm not going to like what you're about to tell me." And then he added, "Not that I've liked any of what you've told me, so far."

Trent huffed a laugh, but there was zero humor in it. "What I mean is," he said hollowly, "he had no idea what I was talking about, because he can't remember anything from before he was five years old."

Blackburn took a moment to process what Trent had said. He visibly paled, leaning forward on an elbow, palm covering his mouth.

"It's not unusual," Trent continued carefully, "for the brain to repress traumatic events."

Blackburn's brow crinkled, eyes even glassier than before. "But to have _no_ memories at all?" His voice trailed off, slightly muffled behind his palm.

Trent felt a lump in his own throat. He filled in the blanks. "It suggests that Clay's early childhood was filled with trauma. Likely abuse. And he can't remember any of it."

Blackburn wasn't one to curse, but a string of mumbled obscenities tumbled through his fingers. He removed his hand from his mouth, leaned back in his chair once again. His eyes fell closed, and he stayed like that for a moment, obviously struggling with the weight of what Trent had told him.

Trent, for his part, had hoped to feel slightly lighter, after sharing the load. But, seeing Blackburn's reaction mirroring his own, he felt worse than ever.

They sat in silence for another few moments, each unsure what to say.

Eventually, Blackburn pushed up from his seat, running a hand through his hair. He paced the room, bringing his other hand up to rest atop his head.

Trent tracked him with his gaze, not saying anything. He'd said enough. It was _a lot_ to process.

Eventually Blackburn stopped pacing, came to lean against the end of his desk, a foot away from Trent. He stared at the floor, obviously thinking. "I met Clay, once," he said quietly, tone distant, as if stuck somewhere in the past. "He would have been about four years old, at the time."

Trent shifted uncomfortably. He'd known that both Blackburn and Adam had operated alongside Ash Spenser. But their commander never spoke much of it, and had never treated Clay any differently because of it – for which, Trent imagined, Clay was probably very grateful. Their boy copped enough flack, trying to forge a career for himself without being haunted by his father's shadow.

"Ash was a solid operator, a dependable team mate," Blackburn continued. "But he was never a _brother_ , if you get what I'm saying."

Trent nodded, understanding.

Blackburn shook his head, tone darkening. "The man never spoke of his family, kept to himself really. We would have team get-togethers, and all of us would bring our wives, children… Ash never brought his wife, or Clay." He scoffed bitterly. "Hell, he wrote a book, and never _once_ mentions his family – just his life on the teams."

Trent hadn't read Ash Spenser's book, had no intention to. His CO's words didn't surprise him though - _self-involved_ didn't even come close to describing the older Spenser. Thank God the apple had fallen far, far from the tree, in regards to Clay.

"There was one time," Blackburn went on, "it was Easter, and everyone was coming to my place for a barbeque. Ash wasn't going to come because he said his wife wasn't well, and he had to mind Clay." He shook his head. "Even the way he said he had to _mind_ Clay, like it was a chore. I remember at the time feeling sorry for the boy, his own father not wanting to spend time with him."

Trent felt a pang of sadness travel though him. He wouldn't rave about his relationship with his own father, but he acknowledged that at least he _had_ some form of relationship.

"We convinced Ash to come," Blackburn recounted. "Told him it was fine to bring Clay along." A thin smile brushed his lips. "My wife found this little yellow stuffed duck in a shop the day before the gathering. She knew Clay was coming, so she grabbed it for him. We gave it to him as an Easter present when he arrived." Another smile briefly flickered, this one more genuine. "His little eyes lit up. I'll never forget how excited he was. He played with it the whole damn time." His voice faltered momentarily. He drew it back with a breath. "Said he'd call it Quack."

Trent found the lump in his throat had swelled, and now he swallowed against it uncomfortably. He didn't know if he felt better or worse, knowing the origin of the 'only friend' Clay had been referring to in his flashback.

"You know what Ash said, after the barbeque?" Blackburn asked, words slightly sharp around the edges. "He thanked me for the toy, because it had apparently worked its magic to distract the kid and shut him up for a couple of hours."

Trent felt himself wince.

Blackburn hung his head, shaking it slightly, as if to himself. "I knew he was a shitty father," he muttered. "That much I was sure of." He blew out a fragile breath. "But I swear to God, if I'd known there was more going on …" Again, his words trailed off, tone swinging between anger, and deep regret.

Trent didn't know what to say. He felt the same, in his own way. Clay had been running with Bravo for nearly three years, and in that time, he'd had contact, on and off with his father. If Trent had known what he knew now, there was no way he would have let Ash Spenser within spitting distance of their boy. Trent wasn't known for his explosive temper - that was more Sonny's thing - but he couldn't guarantee that if he'd been given half a chance, he wouldn't have gone postal on the worthless bastard.

"He was a cute kid, you know," Blackburn admitted sadly. "Big blue eyes, scruffy blond curls …" Another muttered curse. He pushed up from the table, rounding it and dropping back into his seat. "Ash Spenser never deserved him." There was conviction in his tone. "That man should never have become a father."

Trent agreed. Although he felt he should point out, "But if he hadn't, then _we_ wouldn't have Clay."

The commander chewed his lip a moment, eventually huffed a small agreement. "That's true." And then stated, a little firmer, "We can't change the past. But we can figure out where we go from here." His eyes met Trent's. "And I think you'll agree that the right thing is to talk to Clay. As hard as that might be, it's not fair to keep him in the dark about something that affects him so personally."

Trent agreed – although it was a horribly painful admission.

Blackburn scrubbed his eyes. "It was the right decision, not telling the others," he said. "It's not your place."

Trent felt the weight in his chest lesson, just a little. Out of all of this, not telling his brothers had been the hardest part. It was nice to have someone side with him, reassure him that he'd made the right call.

"Let Clay talk to them," Blackburn suggested gently. "When he's ready."

Trent massaged his temples, feeling a headache coming on. He'd had a lot of them recently, his troubled thoughts manifesting physically. That, and he hadn't slept properly in a week. "I'll talk to him," he offered. He'd already decided he would – he just wasn't sure when.

"Perhaps wait until Clay's feeling a little better," Blackburn recommended, as if reading Trent's mind. "Choose your moment wisely."

Trent huffed. He had a feeling there would never be a perfect time to tell Bravo Six that he likely had repressed memories, that his childhood was possibly so traumatic that his brain had shut it out, and that his father was an abusive asshole.

Blackburn snagged a post-it, grabbed his pen. "You still see that psychologist I recommended, back when you wanted to leave Bravo?"

Trent shook his head. The man had been nice enough, he just thankfully hadn't needed to continue.

Jotting down a name and number, the commander handed the post-it across the table.

Trent accepted it, recognizing the name.

"I know I mentioned it previously," Blackburn said, nodding to the note, "but he's an old friend of mine."

Trent folded the small square of paper, shoved it in his pocket.

"One of his special interests, which you may not have been aware of when you went to see him," Blackburn explained, "is hypnotism."

Trent arched a brow.

The older man shrugged. "He may be able to help restore some of Clay's memories, if our boy chooses to go down that road."

Trent chewed his lip. All he could do was gently point Clay in that direction, once the time came. First, he had to work up the nerve to have that dreaded conversation with his little brother…

Silence fell between them, each lost in thought. With little left to say, Trent decided it was time to go home, take some painkillers.

And Blackburn appeared to have aged about ten years, with a slight slump to his shoulders – as if weighed down by something.

Morosely, Trent realized that by opening up, the burden had doubled, instead of halved.

Pushing up from his seat, he gathered himself as best he could. Slowly, he made his way towards the door.

"Trent," Blackburn's voice stopped him.

The commander pinned him with a weary look. "When you do eventually talk to Clay -" His expression softened. "Please make sure he knows I'm here for him, as well."

Trent pressed his lips into a thin smile. He nodded his understanding – and gratitude.

Exiting the office, he couldn't help but feel like he always drew the short straw. Dread settled in his gut at the thought of speaking with Clay. It felt like he was being tasked with leading his brother to the edge of a precipice – and then heartlessly pushing him off.

He'd just have to hope that Clay would somehow land on his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of this story I've assumed Blackburn is married. I can't recall if the show ever revealed that? I can't seem to find it anywhere, so if anyone knows, feel free to point it out :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to merge this with the next bit, but I decided to split them into their own chapters. So this one is slightly shorter, but hopefully it makes up for the lack of Clay in the previous chapter :) Thanks again for all the encouraging words - and if you're still reading! I hope you're safe and well.

Days ticked by.

Clay was discharged from the hospital. He spent a week at Sonny's, with Trent popping by to check on his progress – whilst also secretly keeping tabs on Sonny, to make sure the two weren't getting up to their usual shenanigans.

On the afternoon that Clay was deemed well enough to stay in his own apartment, Sonny cornered Trent in the cage room as they were packing up from running drills. "And?" he prompted, "Did my level of post-hospital care meet your rigid expectations?"

Trent blew him off, shooing him away with a dismissive wave as he unlaced his boots. But he allowed a small smile. Their hot-headed cowboy had actually done a great job caring for their boy.

Sonny seized the splinter of approval. "The judge has spoken!" He announced triumphantly. "Y'all can now refer to me as Bravo's deputy medic, Dr. Quinn."

Brock snorted from across the room. "Medicine woman?"

Sonny scowled, threw a finger sign. "Screw you, Reynolds. You're just jealous."

Patience wasn't one of Sonny's virtues, and yet, despite his obvious eagerness to have his little brother back in action, he joined the rest of them in encouraging Clay to take it easy. Clay wasn't good at being sidelined - in fact, he was a complete pain in the ass; constantly insisting that he was fine, and ready to get back to work.

"Pushing yourself today will only slow you down tomorrow," Trent cautioned, multiple times.

Clay's eye rolls and _Yes Mom_ 's became par for the course, and Trent barely had to look to know that nine times out of ten, one of them was being thrown his way in response to his warnings.

More days passed, and Bravo were spun up a couple of times. Clay was allocated light duties on base until he was completely in the clear – which, in Trent's opinion, was the equivalent of telling a sheep dog it had to observe the sheep, instead of round them up; a recipe for stir-crazy.

On the surface, it appeared that Bravo Six was nearly mended. But, each day, as Trent waited for the right opportunity to talk with his little brother, he was reminded that Clay carried a much deeper, invisible wound – one that would take a hell of a lot longer to heal. And it felt damn cruel that he, as a medic, would have to be the one to deliberately tear it open - when usually it was his job to close wounds up.

Blackburn didn't speak of his and Trent's conversation again, and Trent didn't bring it up. Although every now and then, Trent caught sight of their CO; deep in thought, his expression more shadowed than normal. And he felt that perhaps Blackburn was having as much trouble as he was, squaring the uncomfortable emotions away.

Three and a half weeks post-Cuba, Bravo were fresh back from an in-and-out op in Panama. Things had got hairy. There were a couple of far-too-close calls, and they'd made it to exfil by the skin of their teeth. Adrenaline was still pumping as they unloaded their gear, laughing and joking in the cage room.

Normally, Clay would have been there, waiting for a blow-by-blow on how it had gone. But, today he was noticeably absent, and Trent felt uneasiness tingle through him. Their boy was on base, he no doubt knew they had returned. Trent attempted to shake away his worry, unsuccessfully convincing himself that perhaps their youngest man was busy.

But the others had noticed as well, and Sonny was the first to subtly hint at their little brother's no-show. "Damn, I sure wish Clay had been with us for this one," he reflected, words laced with genuine regret.

The others murmured their agreement, each casting half-glances around, as if waiting for Clay to pop out from somewhere.

"It'll be good when Bravo Six has our six again," Ray acknowledged, zipping a bag and tossing it onto a shelf within his cage. Stepping out, he leaned against the metal framework, rubbing at his grit-smudged forehead. "Could have used his sharp shooting today."

Jason strode past on his way back into his own cage, clapped Ray on the shoulder. "Damn straight. But in the meantime, I'm grateful we have you."

Trent let his eyes fall to his med bag, continued his silent inventory. It was a miracle he hadn't had to dip into it today. The worst injuries they'd received had been a few minor scrapes and bumps. Just another op that could have gone a whole hell of a lot worse – which pretty much summed up the vast majority of their spin-ups, to be fair.

A handful of moments passed, and Trent's unease slowly but surely expanded.

Sonny finally voiced what they were all thinking, stepping out from his cage and gesturing around the room. "Okay, am I the only one who's noticed the complete lack of a certain individual, who would normally be here by now?"

It was like Sonny's words gave them all permission to acknowledge their own worry over Clay's absence. Each of them was guilty, at times, of 'mothering' their youngest team mate. It was as if none of them had wanted to articulate their concerns, lest they later be accused of over-reacting.

Sonny put his hands on his hips, nodded towards Clay's cage. "Where the fuck is Bam Bam?"

As he was speaking, the cage room door clicked open. All of them swung their gazes towards the doorway, expecting to see the man in question.

But it was Blackburn who stuck his head in, gaze quickly finding Trent.

" _Bam Bam_ ," their commander announced, having caught the end of Sonny's question, "is in the infirmary."

Trent's stomach dropped.

"Turns out, he thought it'd be a good idea to go for a jog," Blackburn continued before any of them could cut him off, massaging his forehead.

Trent cursed inwardly.

Jason cursed outwardly.

Sonny just stood, hands still on hips, mouth slightly agape.

"He okay?" Brock asked, stepping towards Sonny, words heavy with concern.

Backburn nodded.

Jason growled. "He wont be, when I'm done with him."

Trent fastened his med kit, stashed it quickly. Damn his gut feelings – they were usually right, especially when it came to Clay. He should have listened to his uneasiness.

"He collapsed," Blackburn relayed, holding the door as Trent approached. "Alpha were out training, saw him go down."

The others hastily closed their cages, prepared to follow suit.

Trent stepped into the corridor and was off, not waiting for his team mates to catch up.

Blackburn jogged the distance between them, coming alongside. "Derek's with him now. Said he'll stay until you get there."

Trent sighed, shoving down his disappointment that Clay had pushed himself, despite everyone's warnings. Their boy had been so close to being in the clear. A light jog shouldn't have caused him to collapse, not with the progress he'd made on his recovery. Something wasn't sitting right, and Trent needed to find out exactly what had happened – and hope that it wouldn't be a huge setback.

They made their way to the infirmary, steps fast and tense. Once there, Trent made a bee-line for Clay's room. He clicked open the door, not bothering to knock.

The room was windowless. Clay lay semi-upright on the bed, propped up against a pillow. His socked feet peeked out the end of a light blanket gathered across his lap. His face was pale, eyes slightly pink-rimmed and glassy. At the sight of Trent and Blackburn, he shrunk somewhat, possibly knowing that Jason wouldn't be far behind with a stern lecture.

Derek turned from where he was seated beside the bed, twitched a small smile in greeting.

Stepping further into the room, Trent took a grounding breath. He swallowed his frustration.

Clay looked small, rattled. Tired.

Once again, Trent felt his stomach clench. Clay's appearance and pallor were enough to turn any frustration into worry. Now clearly wasn't the time for a lecture. He darted a look towards Blackburn, his ears catching the clamor of his team mates' approach.

Backburn read his mind, and hurriedly turned towards the door. "I'll ask the guys to wait outside," he offered.

Trent bobbed his head, muttered his thanks. He approached the bed. "Hey, buddy," he said gently, carefully studying Clay.

Clay didn't offer much in the way of a reaction; a faint twitch of his lips, which could have passed as the shell of a tired smile.

Derek pushed up from his seat. He reached out and gave Clay's shoulder a compassionate squeeze. "I'll leave you to it," he said. "Feel better soon."

Trent thanked him for his help, catching the worry that flickered across Alpha Two's face as Derek left the room. Running a hand through his hair, he took the vacant seat - stiff muscles protesting as he sat; a-not-so-subtle reminder of his recent misadventures in Panama. "So," he started, keeping his tone non-threatening. "Jogging, hey? Really thought that was a good idea?"

Normally, Clay would have rolled his eyes, thrown back some smart-ass comment. Instead, he just sat quietly - which was even more unnerving.

Trent felt anxiety prickle. Deciding to back off, he approached the conversation from a different angle. "I was told you collapsed," he offered. "Do you remember what happened?"

Clay chewed his bottom lip, seeming to study his socks, not meeting Trent's eyes. It was very unlike him, and it put Trent even further on-edge.

A moment passed, and Trent couldn't help the frown that pulled at his brow. Was Clay embarrassed? Ashamed? Angry? Right now, the kid was a closed box. It was a stark and unsettling contrast to the lively version of Bravo Six that they'd said goodbye to the day before.

Eventually, Clay let out a shaky breath, pulled his gaze from his socks and glanced at Trent. "I'm sorry," he said, tone worryingly vacant.

Trent's frown deepened. Something was off, and he was beginning to wonder whether it was mental, instead of physical. Clay's eyes were glassy, not glazed. "Were you jogging and got dizzy?" He probed gently. "You pass out?"

Again, Clay's attention swung back to his socks. He swallowed roughly. "Yes, and … no," he replied, eventually.

Trent fidgeted, hands dangling between his knees. He resisted the urge to immediately launch another question.

Clay reached up, pinched the bridge of his nose. He let his eyes fall closed.

"Headache?" Trent guessed.

But Clay shook his head. He opened his eyes, blinked rapidly. "Didn't pass out," he muttered. "Just got dizzy. Sat down, in a hurry."

As troubled as Trent was by the blankness in Clay's stare, he felt that his little brother was at least alert, present, and reasonably responsive. The kid was just … distant. And it caused Trent's gut to curl in a way that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Figuring he wasn't going to get much more out of Clay for the time being, he settled for reaching over and patting the younger man's forearm. But he quickly stilled when he felt Clay flinch under the light touch. Cautiously, Trent withdrew his hand, worry sparking through him.

Clay hugged himself, seeming to shrink away a little.

Trent tried not to let his concern over the reaction play across his face.

Clay's gaze traveled anxiously towards the doorway. "Jason can come in already," he said, words still unsettlingly hollow. "Get the lecture over with."

Trent once again noted the younger man's exhaustion. He shook his head. "No lectures today," he reassured. He would personally see to it. "Just, give me a second, would you?" He slowly pushed up from the seat, rubbing his suddenly sweaty palms against his thighs. "I'm gonna go have a word to the doc, let her know I'll take you home."

Clay glanced at him warily.

"You're staying at my place tonight," Trent clarified. He wanted to keep a close eye on his little brother, and with Rebecca no longer in the picture, he was conscious of the fact that Clay was on his own in his apartment.

Clay went to protest, but Trent held up a silencing hand. "It's either that, or you're stuck here."

The younger man inhaled shakily, obviously disliking both options, but realizing he didn't have much say in the matter. Leaning his head back against the pillow, he stared up at the ceiling, chewing at his lip.

Trent watched him a moment longer, absently scratching his thumb against his index finger. Something had happened, when Clay had gone for a jog today, and his gut told him that it wasn't as simple as their boy getting dizzy and landing on his ass. "Sit tight," he instructed. "I'll be back in a moment."

Clay didn't move. Or reply. Just kept studying the featureless ceiling.

Trent sucked in a breath, hastily exiting the room. Once he was outside, he closed the door behind him, turning his back and leaning against it.

His brothers, as well as Blackburn, looked to him expectantly from where they waited not-so-patiently in the corridor.

Trent scrubbed a hand over tired eyes, feeling grit. They were all filthy, exhausted, and needed to go home. "Look," he said, after a moment, eyes finding Jason's but directing his words at all of them. "He's okay, just a little fragile."

Sonny raised a brow.

"Go in and see him," Trent continued. "But keep it brief. He's tired and doesn't need a dressing down right now. I think he feels guilty enough." And then he suggested pointedly, "Perhaps save the ass-kicking for another day."

Jason grumbled, but seemed to catch on to the warning. Trent knew he was more concerned than angry.

"I'll let his doc know that I'm taking him home," Trent explained, waving in the direction of the infirmary's main office. "He can stay with me tonight. I'll keep an eye on him."

A subtle ripple of relief traveled through the group, though nobody voiced it aloud.

"Alright," Jason nodded, folded his arms over his chest. "But keep me updated, would you?"

Trent's lip twitched at Bravo One's habitual request. He stepped away from the door – Sonny reaching for the handle as soon as he was out of the way.

Blackburn didn't follow the others, instead caught Trent gently by the elbow. "Have you, uh, spoken with Spenser yet, about …?" he asked quietly, words trailing off.

Trent's heart skipped a beat at the mention of the impending, dreaded conversation. He shook his head stiffly.

Blackburn didn't push, just pursed his lips, understanding.

Trent knew, in his gut, that he couldn't put it off for much longer. Especially with Clay maintaining occasional contact with his father. "Perhaps tonight, if I feel like he's up for it."

A knowing look settled over Blackburn's features. "He'll never be up for it," he stated truthfully.

And Trent felt the weight of that statement. He nodded, heart sinking.

"Probably better to do it, when _you're_ up for it," Blackburn advised gently.

Trent huffed. "And when might that be?" His words came out slightly sharper than he'd intended.

Thankfully the older man wasn't ruffled by the tone. "No easy days …" he pointed out, almost sadly.

And damn, wasn't that the truth.

Trent gathered himself, offering a thin smile. Despite his CO's support, he still felt very much alone in what he knew he eventually had to do.

"I need to chat with Clay's doc," he repeated, stepping away and swallowing against the sting of bile that threatened the back of his throat. "I'll be back in a moment."

Backburn didn't reply, but Trent sensed the commander's gaze following him all the way to the end of the brightly lit corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah I forgot to mention I gave Rebecca the flick in this story 🙃


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much everyone for the kind words :) I'm undecided whether this story will have one or two more chapters, but either way, we're nearly there. Thanks for sticking with me if you're still reading!
> 
> **WARNING** once again for mentions of child abuse, with a few details - nothing too graphic. Please don't read if it might be triggering.

The day was grey. It was nearing four PM and already the nighttime cool could be felt rising through the ground. The bruised sky threatened rain, yet so far had failed to deliver. The sun was smothered, making it feel later than it was.

Trent was glad he hadn't ridden today. He steered his truck towards home, one hand on the wheel. His other elbow was bent, resting on the window sill. He could feel the cool of the glass, in the spot where it vibrated lightly against his arm.

Clay was sitting beside him in the passenger seat – face tilted away, cheek cradled by the safety belt. He stared blankly at the passing scenery. He hadn't said much, since leaving the base, and Trent felt uneasy with the younger man's ongoing silent demeaner. It was so ill-suited, it set alarm bells clamoring.

"You doing alright?" Trent asked tentatively.

Clay took a moment to reply, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the glass. "Yeah," he said eventually, voice partially smothered by the sound of the engine.

As uncomfortable as it was, Trent decided not to push. Clay was never this fragile. Guarded - yes. Moody - sometimes. But never this brittle around the edges, withdrawn in a way that wasn't a defense mechanism. Trent's suspicion that there was more to Clay's jogging mishap lingered, but he figured it could wait until later, once they were home.

The rest of the relatively short journey passed by in silence. Trent spent the time rehearsing ways to brooch the awkward conversation he was supposed to be having with the younger man. Was it best to insert the knife slowly, apologizing along the way? Or just ram it into his heart, and get it over with? It was a no-win situation, no matter which option he chose.

Pulling into his driveway, Trent briefly wondered whether he had left his house in a presentable state. Since his last girlfriend had left him, things had fallen to a barely acceptable level of disarray. What was it his ex-wife used to say, when she was frustrated with him – which was most of the time - that he was … _domestically inept_? Something like that. Trent threw the vehicle in park, stamped on the brake. Popped his door.

Clay didn't rush to get out.

Trent was nearly to the passenger door, when the younger man finally opened it - swinging a leg out and rejecting the offer of assistance.

Trent didn't take offense. He would carry Clay if he had to. But for now, the kid was stubbornly moving under his own steam – thankfully not too unsteady on his feet.

Unlocking the front door, Trent ushered Clay inside, before heading back to the truck to grab both of their packs. Clay knew his way around, had been there before. Granted, it had been a while. Trent hadn't invited anyone since his last girlfriend's departure. It wasn't intentional, he just figured it came from a place of wanting to reclaim his home as his own, after sharing it for over a year. His only 'unwelcome' guest of late had been Brock, who enjoyed turning up unannounced and coaxing Trent out into the real world.

Making his way down the short hallway and into the open lounge-kitchen-dining area, Trent dropped their packs by the coffee table.

Clay had plopped down on the couch, was currently leaning forward with his forehead resting in his hands.

"You want a shower?" Trent offered, placing his keys on the kitchen bench.

Clay shook his head, leaned back with a tired sigh. His eyes were still pink-rimmed, slightly puffy.

Trent didn't push. It wasn't like Clay was the one caked in Central American dirt and grime. As for himself, he would grab a shower later, once he knew Clay was settled. "You want anything to eat?"

But again, Clay shook his head.

Trent ignored him, moving into the kitchen and determining that he would fix the kid some food, whether he wanted it or not. A quick examination of his fridge revealed very little to work with. Grilled cheese it was. _Domestically inept_. Trent fished out some bread, butter, cheese and mayo. His ex-wife really had been a bitch.

Clay went to the bathroom. Returned and plopped back down on the couch. Leaned back and closed his eyes - all the while surrounded by a cloud of … something. Trent couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he knew it wasn't good.

Plating up a sandwich and grabbing a glass of water, Trent brought them into the lounge room and handed them to Clay.

Clay eyed them, giving Trent an _I'm not hungry_ look, but accepted the offer – possibly out of guilt that Trent had gone to the trouble.

Trent sat beside his brother, practically inhaled his food. He was starving. Attempting to chase away the silence, he filled Clay in on their recent op. The conversation was mostly one-sided, on Trent's part, but he carried on anyway.

Clay nibbled at his meal; his effort poor, at best.

"Feeling nauseous?" Trent asked after a few minutes of watching Clay pick.

Clay nodded slowly. "A little."

"Want something for it?" Trent was ready to grab some pills.

But Clay waved him off. "I'm good," he mumbled. Though his pale complexion and his reluctance to eat said otherwise.

They sat in heavy silence for a few moments, and Trent decided that it was as good a time as any to rip the band-aid off.

Who was he kidding, it was a terrible time. But it was never going to get any easier, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself.

Leaning forward, he placed his plate atop the coffee table. A tightness unfurled within him, gripping his insides. He couldn't think about it anymore. "I, uh," he started, knowing that there really wasn't an ideal way to launch into it. "There's something I've been wanting to talk to you about," he said honestly, eyeing his brother and trusting that the younger man would sense the seriousness of his tone.

Clay stopped picking at his meal, briefly returned the level look before darting his gaze away again. Shifting his plate to the side, he sat, hunched forward, hugging his knees. "Okay," he said, quietly, listening. Still very much _not-Clay_.

Trent cleared his throat, blinking at the carpet for a moment. There was no gentle way to say what he needed to say. "I need to talk to you about something that happened back in Havana, when we were on our way to exfil."

Clay had also chosen a spot of carpet to stare at. Once again, his eyes darted briefly to Trent.

"I know I mentioned back at the hospital that you came to a couple of times before exfil, kept asking for something called 'Quack'," Trent pushed on. "I didn't want to worry you at the time, so I didn't go into details. But, the truth is, you didn't just _come to_." He paused, considering his next words carefully. "You had, what I'd best describe as … a flashback, of sorts. You seemed to be reliving an old memory, from when you were about four years old. At least, you told me you were four years old…"

Clay didn't reply, but Trent sensed the younger man grow tense. He continued to hug his knees, and his breathing became marginally shallower, more rapid – a minor detail that most people probably wouldn't have picked up on, but Trent was trained to notice such small physical changes.

"I was the only one who heard what you said," Trent explained. "And I want you to know that I haven't said anything to the others. The only other person I've spoken with is Blackburn, because I needed advice on what to do. And because -" he paused, swallowing against the dryness in his throat. "Well, you kind of made reference to him during the flashback."

Clay took his head in his hands, covered his face. Drew some very shaky breaths.

Trent's words stuck. He had to work hard to dredge them up and out. "You, uh," he fumbled. "You weren't in a good way," he admitted quietly. "You were crying, scared." He watched Clay carefully, as he recounted the details. "You talked about spilling some juice, your Dad being mad. I think you were reliving the moment you broke your wrist." He closed his eyes, backtracked. "Or, more likely, the moment your wrist was broken. By someone."

Clay let out a small sound, kept his face in his hands. His shoulders began to tremble.

Trent gently lay a comforting hand upon his little brother's back.

Clay flinched, but didn't pull away.

"Clay?" Trent prompted carefully, troubled by the younger man's strange reaction. He had more he wanted to say, but he felt he should pause. Did Clay understand what he was implying? Did he need it spelled out? Swallowing roughly, Trent decided to take the risk, filling in the blanks. "No child should be that terrified of their father. It suggests -"

Clay suddenly pushed up from the couch, shaking Trent's hand from his back. "I need some air," he muttered hoarsely as he stumbled, nearly tripping over the coffee table.

Trent was on his feet, following behind his brother as the kid rushed through the kitchen. "Clay -"

Clay yanked open the back door, all but threw himself outside.

Pausing with a hand against the doorframe, Trent watched as Clay stood, doubled over with an arm slung around his middle, heaving. He waited a moment, worry swirling, before he slowly descended the couple of wide, cracked cement stairs that led to a modest paved area.

Clay stood at the edge of the paving, directing his vomit into the weedy grass. There wasn't a lot coming up, but it was violent. And when he straightened, he brushed tears from the corners of his eyes. He half-turned, sensing Trent there.

Trent's heart hurt at the sight. Without thinking, he approached and gently guided Clay back to the stairs. They sat down together, side by side.

For a while, neither said anything. Where some people might find long silences uncomfortable, Trent had never minded them. He rested his forearms on his bent knees, hands dangling in between. Casting his gaze to his run-down wooden fence, he listened as Clay's hitched breathing evened out somewhat.

The light was fading, clouds still sagging. There was a cold, damp-feeling breeze that traveled through Trent's thin long-sleeved shirt to bite at his skin. A sparrow hopped its way along the top of the far boundary fence, silhouetted against the grey of the late afternoon. And somewhere, a couple of houses over, a dog yapped abruptly.

Clay massaged his temples, fingers splayed either side of his face. He was still visibly shaking.

"I'm sorry," Trent said eventually. And damn, he meant it. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, blew a breath out through his nose. "I hate that I've upset you, but I couldn't keep it to myself."

Clay dropped his hands, mirrored Trent as they dangled between his bent knees. His gaze drifted to the ground between his feet.

"At first I thought you were dreaming," Trent admitted. "But your emotions were so strong, so real. Your absolute fear of your father, the x-ray showing the old fracture in your wrist … It added up." He shook his head, as if he could dislodge the uncomfortable emotions. "It added up to something horrible. And then you mentioned that you couldn't remember anything before you were five, and, you know, I started to wonder if perhaps you couldn't remember because of the trauma you'd experienced …" He darted a glance at Clay, hating what he was saying, but also knowing that it needed to be said. "You referred to Blackburn by his first name, in the flashback. When I spoke with him, he confirmed that he'd met you once, when you were around four years old. He told me that Quack was a stuffed toy he gave you. A duck."

Clay ran a hand over his curls, wiped at his damp eyes again.

Trent wondered whether the tears were left over from the vomiting, or something else. He suspected the latter.

The younger man sniffed, shook his head slightly. Bit his lip. "I don't remember when my Dad broke my wrist," he admitted, voice not quite working properly.

And for a moment, Trent suspected he would reject everything that had been suggested – which would be understandable, since it was a hell of a lot to have to digest.

But Clay didn't reject what Trent had said. Instead, he huffed bitterly, and his next words were pushed through gritted teeth. "But I do remember when he shoved me so hard out the back door, that I fell down the stairs and was nearly knocked out when my head hit the fucking pavement."

Trent's insides jolted at Clay's words. He had to replay them, while his brain caught up.

Clay continued, voice still strained. "I went for a jog today, to get my mind off the fact that you guys were spun up." He shook his head. "It was a stupid thing to do, but I felt okay and didn't think it would do any harm."

Trent resisted the urge to agree that yes, it was a stupid move – listening instead to the part of him that could relate to Clay's frustration at having been benched.

"I was feeling fine," Clay explained, "but then, as I was going along, I started noticing the clover in the grass." He huffed again, this time with an air of pained disbelief. "Something so benign, so insignificant, suddenly had my head spinning. And, I felt … -" His words trailed off, and he blinked, rapidly casting his gaze about the yard as if searching for his incomplete sentence. Seeming to find it after a handful of breaths, he filled in the blank, "I felt _terrified_."

Trent listened, his stomach clenched in a painful knot.

"I suddenly remembered being shoved down the stairs, hitting the pavement near our back lawn," Clay admitted, brokenly. "My father cursing at me, banging the doorframe, slamming the door. Telling me he wished I'd never been born." He closed his eyes, fresh tears leaking. "There was clover in the grass. I remember looking at it, trying to focus on it, but it was all fuzzy and there was blood in one of my eyes."

Trent had trouble drawing a full breath. Clays admission physically hurt to hear. Eventually, he found his voice. "Noticing the clover on your jog brought another memory to the surface," he concluded, finding the idea extremely troubling. No wonder Clay had been out of sorts.

"I didn't want to believe it was a memory," Clay said, voice breaking. "But, deep down … I just knew."

Trent's chest ached. There was nothing he could say to make any of it better. So, he just quietly offered, "Blackburn gave me the name of a psychologist, a friend of his. Someone who's helped me, in the past. I'll give you his number, and you can decide, when you're ready, if you want to go down the road of unearthing that part of your life."

Clay didn't reply, just brushed at the stray tears that trailed down his cheeks. Sniffed. "I figure I have to, at some point," he sighed, tone once again distant.

Trent agreed, though he didn't voice it aloud.

"Can't have random memories popping up, landing me on my ass again," he continued. And then, added quietly, "This is just the tip of the iceberg." He cast a weary, yet resolute, sideways glance at Trent. "Better to know your enemy, right?"

Trent released the breath he'd been holding. Sometimes, Clay showed maturity and strength beyond his years. Squeezing a thin smile, he reached around Clay's shoulders and drew the younger man into a gentle side-hug; acknowledging Clay's courage, whilst also offering a portion of his own.

Clay leaned against Trent for a moment, before pulling upright. Blowing out a wobbly breath, he brushed the last of his tears away, casting his eyes to the darkening blanket of clouds above them.

"I want you to know," Trent said, after a moment of also watching the clouds, "that if, and when, you choose to unearth the rest of your memories, I'm one-hundred percent here for you. If you need me."

Clay twitched a lip. "Thanks, man," he breathed, tone genuine, voice still cracked.

Trent felt a drop of rain skim his forehead. "And Blackburn wants you to know the same." Another drop landed, this time on the back of his hand. Absently, he brushed it away. "And I know that if, and when, you choose to talk to the others, they will also have your back."

The faint smile resting upon Clay's lips grew slightly stronger. "I know," he answered, brushing at drops that were landing on him. "I have no doubt. And I'm grateful."

Taking the rain as their cue to go back inside, both men pushed up from the step – Trent helping Clay to his feet.

Clay stepped back, looking Trent over as if focusing on him for the first time since before Bravo had left for Panama. "You look wrecked," he stated, taking in the dirt-smudged clothing, Trent's slightly haywire hair.

Trent huffed. Every muscle in his body ached. "It's been a rough day," he confirmed, opening the door and ushering Clay inside.

"Tell me about it," the younger man half muttered, half sobbed under his breath as he stepped out of the rain, back into the kitchen.

Once inside, Trent flicked on some lights, and Clay made his way back over to the couch. The rain picked up, pinging against gutters and drainpipes. The temperature was falling with the night's approach, and Trent clicked on the small gas heater that sat, recessed into the room's old hearth. It wasn't exactly a cozy, crackling fire, but it did the job.

Clay kicked his shoes off, stretched out on the couch.

Trent threw him a pillow. "Sure you don't want a shower?"

Clay waved him off.

"Mind if I shower?"

Clay rubbed at his still pink-rimmed eyes. "Go for it." He lay on his back, staring at the high, embossed ceiling.

Trent watched him a moment, rubbed at his beard. "You know," he said, moving over to the large bookcase that held all his DVDs. "Why don't I put something on for you. Might be a good distraction?"

Clay had an arm draped over his eyes, elbow bent against the back of the couch. He blinked over at the bookcase. "Quite the collection you have there," he observed, tone honestly impressed.

Trent allowed a grin. "My ex-wife hated it," he admitted, letting his eyes wander over the titles. "So did my ex-girlfriend."

"They didn't deserve you," Clay stated firmly.

Trent shrugged. "I definitely didn't deserve _them_ ," he corrected. "The amount of shit I put up with, years I'll never get back."

Clay snorted. "Live and learn, man. It happens to the best of us."

Trent allowed his smile to linger another moment, grateful to hear Clay sounding a little more like himself – despite the definite shadows still lingering behind his eyes. "So," he said, gesturing at the shelves. "What'll it be?"

Clay looked slightly embarrassed. "Uh, whatever, really," he replied. "I'm sure I haven't seen most of them."

Trent's reassessed his collection, frowning in thought. "Whenever I need distracting," he offered," I go for one of the classics …" His gaze landed on a box set, and he tilted it off the shelf. "Star Wars?" He suggested, holding it up.

Clay looked blank. "Sure. I've never seen it."

Trent's jaw nearly hit the floor. "You – _you've never seen it_?"

Clay shook his head.

"Not the new ones," Trent clarified, waving the box in disbelief. "The original three. The good ones."

Clay gave a small laugh, shrugged. "You're forgetting where I grew up. No television at my Grandparents' house."

Trent hadn't forgotten, he just couldn't believe Clay had missed such an important piece of film history. Determining to give his boy an education, he decided to put it on.

Once the movie started, and Trent had checked that Clay didn't need anything else for the time being, he went and had a shower.

To say that the hot water felt amazing on his stiff muscles was an understatement. Trent stood, leaning his forehead against the tiled wall, breathing deeply for the first time in weeks. The weight he'd been carrying had finally lessened, and even though Clay was far from okay, it felt manageable – simply because it wasn't a secret any more. And any challenge, once removed from shadows, wasn't as daunting as a threat waiting to blindside you in the dark.

Figuring he shouldn't stay in for too long, he reluctantly twisted off the water. He was bone-weary, and ready for a decent sleep. With any luck, he might actually catch some z's tonight. It had been a while since he'd been able to close his eyes and drift off, without being tormented by his churning thoughts. His mind was still troubled, and his gut still tight, but he'd seen Clay's silent resolve to beat this new set of demons - and he felt really proud of his little brother for that. Though he was under no illusion that the process would be a cake-walk.

Throwing on his comfy pants, Trent toweled his wet hair. Once he was no longer dripping, he pulled on a shirt and wandered back into the lounge room to check on Clay.

He stopped short as the couch came into view.

Clay was sprawled out, much as he had been. He'd stripped off his pants and lay in his boxer briefs and shirt, hugging the pillow – fast asleep.

As quietly as possible, Trent stepped into the room. The movie was only at the twenty-minute mark. Either Clay had decided it was far too boring from the get-go, or it had done the trick in distracting him enough so that he could catch some sleep.

Stopping the film, Trent shut off the TV. He grabbed a blanket from the hall cupboard, and gently draped it over Clay. Before the blanket covered the younger man, Trent caught sight of a tendril of knotted scar tissue, peeking out from the bottom of Clay's right boxer leg – a permanent reminder of how close Bravo had come to losing their little brother.

Swallowing against the sudden tightness in his throat, Trent tucked the blanket in at the edges, and flicked off the lights. He left the heater on – knowing how cold his drafty old house could be.

Clay's newest wound wasn't hidden any more, but unlike the scar on his leg, it wasn't obvious. And those types of invisible wounds were the most dangerous – the hardest to treat, the slowest to heal. But Clay had a lot of people who cared about him, and Trent just had to trust that their combined strength would be enough to get their boy through to the light at the end of the very long, dark tunnel that was waiting for him, should he choose to unearth the rest of his repressed memories.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to do one more chapter, then changed my mind to two. Now I've settled on one shorter chapter, and an epilogue. Thank you so so much to those who have left kind words of encouragement along the way! And if you've got this far, thanks for sticking with me :)

Just over a week later, Clay requested an off-the-record team meeting in the cage room. Trent pretended not to know what it was about, even though the younger man had sent him a text beforehand explaining his intentions.

Clay had been cleared to return to active duty, his doctor happy that he was fully recovered from his head injury. However, he'd chosen to take a period of personal leave, to see the psychologist and hopefully unearth and work through his forgotten memories – along with the associated storm of emotions that such unearthing would bring.

He told Bravo as much – facing them with all the strength he could possibly muster. And, to his credit, he made it through most of the details with only a slight tremble around his words, his voice faltering just a handful of times.

Trent watched his little brother, feeling proud of his courage in telling the others. It was painful enough talking about it the first time, when they'd been alone, let alone going through it again with a larger audience.

He noticed the set of Clay's shoulders, the quiet determination lingering between his words. There was a certain strength in discomfort, power in facing an overwhelming challenge head-on. The key to Clay overcoming his demons would be drawing them into the light. And talking to his brothers, right now, was a small but important step along that difficult path.

The reaction from their team mates was much gentler than Trent had expected. He could see each of them struggling with what Clay had told them, but one by one, they doused the flames that threatened to erupt into a raging inferno - wisely choosing instead to offer Clay their solidarity and support.

"Whatever you need, brother," Ray stated firmly, drawing steadfast agreement from each of them.

Trent practically saw the weight lift from Clay's shoulders at the words. It was as if he'd also anticipated an explosive reaction - but was then winded with relief at not having to juggle the fury of his brothers, alongside everything else.

Perhaps the others sensed that as well, because Jason levelled Clay with a look, assured him that they would all support him in whatever way they could. They would have his back, one-hundred percent. "Because that's what families do."

Sonny offered to take care of Ash, if Clay wanted. But his suggestion lacked heat, as if he were simply testing the water. Trent had no doubt that the Texan would put Ash Spenser six feet under, if given half a chance – hell, they all would. But eliminating Clay's worthless father wouldn't help their little brother, and he was sure that deep down, they all knew that.

Clay told them that Ash was busy touring for his latest book, and so was out of the picture, for the time being.

"How do we make sure he doesn't come near you, when he gets back?" Sonny questioned, darting a look at Jason and twitching a brow.

Clay blew out a breath, shook his head. "I'll deal with Ash," he told them, tone resolute. There was a gentle warning lingering between his words, an unspoken request to leave the older Spenser alone. "I just … need to work through some things before I figure out what I'll say to him."

Jason chewed his lip, studying Clay with the intensity of a concerned father rather than a team leader. "Well, if you need us to step in, you just say the word. Got it?"

Clay gave a small nod, eyes glassy, and Trent could see that he was barely holding it together.

Possibly also sensing Clay's fragility, the others offered another surge of reassurances.

Jason moved closer to their boy and placed a grounding hand upon his shoulder.

Clay blinked rapidly, biting his lip against a light tremble. "I need to sort this out," he stated, attempting to draw his shoulders straighter, as if squaring off against his emotions. "I can't operate effectively as things stand, and that's not good enough for me. I need to feel confident that I have your backs. And right now … I'm too distracted."

The words hit hard, but they all understood. It was an admission that garnered respect, even if it was difficult to swallow. Each of them would make the same call, if they were in Clay's shoes. Him stepping down, for the time being, was as much for his own protection as it was for theirs.

"We've got your six, buddy," Trent spoke up, joining Jason by Clay's side, reaching out and laying a hand upon the younger man's back.

The others quickly followed, surrounding their boy in a gesture of complete solidarity.

"We're not going anywhere," Jason assured. "And neither is your spot on this team. No matter how long it takes, no matter how long you need, we're here for you."

"Damn straight," Sonny agreed firmly.

"Amen to that," Ray echoed.

And Brock just nodded, dark eyes bright and sincere.

STSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTST

Clay had his first hypnosis session with the psychologist less than a week later. Trent knew, because his little brother turned up on his doorstep that afternoon – frayed at the seams and shaking.

Trent didn't probe for details, just led him inside out of the biting wind, a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Clay plopped down on the couch, head in his hands, sobbing.

Trent made him a grilled cheese sandwich, put on Star Wars.

Clay was asleep before the end of the film.

The process repeated, another three times. Each time Clay turned up, unannounced – and each time Trent ushered him inside, made him a sandwich, put on Star Wars. Each time Clay fell asleep on the couch.

They made it all the way to the end of the second movie.

Gradually, Clay offered details. He admitted that the sessions had done their trick in restoring his missing memories – though some days, he wished he could put them back. There was a lot to work through, but he was getting there.

"Baby steps," Trent encouraged. Because proper healing couldn't be rushed, and sometimes you needed to completely rebuild again, from the ground up.

The next time Clay came by Trent's, he messaged first. It was a couple of weeks later and Bravo had been granted a few days downtime.

Trent was mooching around the house in his comfy pants, having successfully dodged Brock's pestering requests to come out for a run. He'd decided that if he wasn't going to have a real holiday any time soon, then he would at least have three days of movies, snacks and beer, all within the blessed silence of his home. With zero interruptions.

Of course, he made an exception for Clay.

His little brother turned up, carrying a paper bag and a six-pack of Trent's favorite beer. His beard was trimmed, his scruffy hair somewhat less-scruffy. And he had an energy about him that Trent hadn't seen in a long time.

It was like the missing piece of Bravo Six had been found again – or, more likely, replaced with something new.

"Hey, man," Clay greeted, stepping past Trent and into the house. "Brought you lunch." He lifted the delicious-smelling paper bag. "Hope you're hungry."

Trent closed the door, trailing down the hallway after his brother.

As Clay set about unloading the food in the kitchen, Trent couldn't help but notice his changed demeaner – shoulders straighter, less shadows around his eyes. It wasn't drastic, but the shift was there. And it was a welcome sight.

Clay popped a fry in his mouth, drew two wrapped burgers from the bag. "Hope you don't mind me crashing your downtime." He grabbed a bowl from the cupboard, tipped the fries in. Snagged another one.

Trent shook his head, leaning against the counter. Truth was, he'd come to enjoy Clay's little visits. He was grateful that the kid felt comfortable enough to talk with him. It had taken a long while for the younger man to truly open up, after joining Bravo. Being granted permission to peek behind Clay's notoriously impenetrable walls wasn't something any of them ever took for granted.

"How's the psych sessions going?" Trent asked after a moment.

Clay pulled two bottles of beer from the six-pack, handing one over. Cracking open his drink, he took a sip. "Okay," he answered honestly, lowering the bottle and wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "Feels like I'm making progress, you know. Working through it all. Coming to terms with it."

Trent took a sip of his own drink. The lunch, the beer – it was a thoughtful gesture. "Coming to terms with something traumatic isn't the same as being okay with it," he reflected. He met Clay's eyes. "You don't ever have to be okay with it. But by accepting what happened, you're at least giving yourself permission to move forward."

Clay nodded, acknowledging the meaning behind Trent's words. "Similar to how I felt after Manila, with my leg."

Trent squeezed a tight smile. Trauma was trauma, no matter whether you carried the scars on the inside or out. Recovering from a traumatic injury was something he and Clay shared. They rarely spoke about it, but the silent understanding was there.

Trent cleared his throat, eyed his burger hungrily. "Thanks for bringing all this," he said. And then, with a quirk of his lip. "You finally sick of grilled cheese?"

Clay smiled – a genuine, wide, _Clay smile_. Something that had been missing from his face for way too long. He shook his head. "Nah, man, I just …" his words trailed off. Fishing them back, he blew out a breath. "I wanted to say thank you," he admitted, smile being replaced by a look of gentle sincerity. "I don't know what I would've done without you, these last couple of months."

Trent felt his throat tighten. It had most definitely been one hell of a rough ride – and it wasn't over yet. He patted Clay on the shoulder, gave it a light squeeze. He would do it again in a heartbeat, if it meant helping his brother out.

Clay broke the silence, before it had the chance to truly settle between them. "I don't know about you," he said, "but I'm starving."

Trent ran with the change of topic, accepting the paper-wrapped burger Clay handed to him with a grateful smile.

Clay grabbed the plate of fries, his burger and beer. Nodded towards the couch. "Star Wars?"

Trent laughed. "You gonna fall asleep?"

Clay shook his head defiantly, already taking a seat. "I want to see what happens."

Trent placed his burger and beer on the coffee table, flicked on the TV and got the film started.

And, true to his word, Clay didn't fall asleep this time.

Once the film had finished, Clay remained staring at the TV long after the credits began to roll. Eventually, he shifted his gaze to Trent. "Luke's Dad really was a dick, wasn't he?"

Trent couldn't help the laugh that broke his lips. Yes, yes he was. He tilted his head, slightly amused by Clay's observation. "And yet," he countered, gaze meeting his brother's, "Luke turned out alright. Didn't let his dickhead father ruin his life."

Clay allowed a faint smile, nodded slowly.

"Our past doesn't determine our future," Trent stated, pushing up from the couch and gathering their trash. "Each challenge has the potential to tear us down, or build us up. The choice is always ours."

Clay huffed, eyes growing distant for a moment. He pulled his attention back, took a grounding breath. "What doesn't kill you, right?"

But Trent shook his head. "Our challenges don't make us stronger. _We_ make us stronger."

Clay rubbed his eyes tiredly, gave a mild smirk. "Thanks, Yoda."

Trent pitched a balled-up burger wrapper at him. "You have much to learn, young Jedi."

Clay easily dodged the paper missile, reflexes as quick as they'd ever been.

And, for the first time since that fateful night in Havana, Trent truly believed that his little brother would be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know some people might be upset by the lack of Bravo vs. Ash confrontation. But ... I'm a sucker for a fluffy ending, and I don't feel that a big show-down quite fits with the themes of this story. I have one more little bit to add, which hopefully wont take me too long. And apologies for the Britishism, I've since amended 'toasties' to grilled cheese ;)


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the last little bit. Thank you so much for reading :) Stay safe and well everyone, I'm crawling back into my hole x

Blackburn ended the call he'd been on for the past half hour, rubbed irritably at his aching ear. Formalities, red tape, navigating the unpredictable and often infuriating waters of dealing with the Brass – none of those were his favorite things.

Leaning back in his chair and scrubbing a hand over tired eyes, he tilted his face towards the ceiling, let out a weary half-groan, half-sigh.

He'd never felt at home behind a desk. But with his operating days behind him, his current role was one that at least kept him rubbing shoulders with his old life in the field - despite Bravo giving him grey hairs, colossal headaches, and heart palpitations on a regular basis.

It was late afternoon, and he just had a few more things to do before he could call it a day.

A knock at his office door sent his heart sinking.

Pulling himself upright, he wearily called for whoever it was to enter – silently praying it wasn't Davis with another problem for him to tackle. He loved the woman, but he'd had enough for the day and just wanted to go home.

The door cracked open, and Clay leaned in.

Not who Blackburn had expected, but a welcome visitor, nonetheless. He hadn't seen much of Bravo's number six, since Clay had taken personal leave - though the younger man had never been far from his thoughts. He cast a smile in the direction of the door, waved Clay inside.

Clay entered, closing the door behind him. He pushed his hands into his jacket pockets, choosing to hover instead of sit.

"Sure looking forward to having you back next week," Blackburn greeted, meaning every word. He'd missed their youngest – even with the kid's tendency to question authority at the worst possible times. Clay brought an irreplaceable energy to the team, and his recent absence had left an uncomfortable, gaping hole, which they'd all struggled with over the last few months.

Clay pushed a hollow smile. His gaze drifted to the floor, and he chewed at his lip.

Blackburn's anxiety prickled. Pushing up from his seat, he nervously rounded his desk. "All good?" he asked, almost scared of what the answer might be – worried that Clay might have changed his mind about returning to work.

Clay offered another small smile, lifted his glistening eyes.

Blackburn didn't miss the emotion playing across the younger man's features. It caught him a little off guard, pulling at the knot that had been sitting inside him ever since Trent had shed light on Clay's unsettling childhood. He hadn't had a chance to speak with Clay, alone like this. Though he'd secretly hoped that the kid would come by.

Clay cleared his throat, blinked rapidly. He removed a hand from his jacket pocket, drawing out a small, stuffed toy.

Blackburn glanced between the item and Clay's face, feeling a lump form in his throat. He'd left the little yellow duck in Clay's cage about a month ago, after coming across it in a store. He'd tucked a note underneath it, being sure to leave it where only Clay would find it. It was his way of reminding Bravo Six that he wasn't alone. At the time, he'd worried that he might have been overstepping the mark. But he'd gone ahead anyway, deciding not to mention it, and figuring that Clay would either seek him out, or ignore it, once it was found.

Clay fiddled with the duck, rubbing gently at its soft fluff. "I, uh …" he tried, but his voice stuck. Clearing his throat again, he attempted to steady his words. "I … remember meeting you, when I was a kid." He admitted, throat working. "I remember you giving me Quack." He met Blackburn's eyes, and squeezed another very strained smile. A tear broke free, tracing a path down his cheek. He opened his mouth, as if to say more, but the words didn't come.

Blackburn felt the lump in his throat swell, his chest tighten. Casting his worries about overstepping boundaries aside, he moved forward and pulled Clay into a firm embrace.

Clay's resolve crumbled, his dam wall breaking.

Warm wetness seeped through Blackburn's shirt, where Clay's face was tilted against his shoulder, and he felt each of the younger man's hitching breaths. There was so much that he wanted to say, so much he'd thought about, over and over, during these past months. And yet now … words failed him. None of them felt enough. So he simply held Clay tight, until the tears settled.

Eventually, Blackburn found his words. "I'm sorry," he whispered. And God damn it, he meant it. He'd failed Clay, twenty-five years ago. He should have paid closer attention to the signs. If he had, he could have intervened.

Clay pulled back gently, wiping at his eyes and shaking his head. He still clutched the duck. "It wasn't your fault."

Blackburn swallowed jaggedly. Perhaps that was true, but he still carried a measure of guilt for what had happened. He sighed, pressing a hand to his mouth, holding it there a moment before letting it fall back to his side. "I let you down," he stated sadly, shaking his head when Clay opened his mouth to disagree. He pinned the younger man with a weighty look. "I didn't protect you, when you needed it most. I can't change the past, but I can promise that I'll never let you down like that again." Of that, he was sure.

Clay, for once in his life, swallowed his argument. Perhaps he sensed that the promise wasn't just for his benefit, but Blackburn's as well.

A moment of silence stretched between them. They allowed it to gently settle. There could be healing in the spaces between words, too.

Blackburn was the first to break the quiet. "I want you to remember that I'm here, if you ever need me." He wasn't sure what, exactly, he was offering. But perhaps it didn't need to be spelled out.

Clay sniffed, gratitude resting in the soft smile that brushed his lips. He looked down at the little duck in his hands. It was a lot smaller than the original Quack, yet the thought behind it was somehow greater this time, more meaningful. "Thank you," he said, his voice quiet. Sincere.

Blackburn returned the smile, feeling the resident knot within him loosen, just a little.

Clay curled his fingers around the toy, pushed it back within his jacket pocket. Inhaling shakily, he attempted to gather himself. He looked terribly young, and for a moment, Blackburn saw that little boy, with bright blue eyes and blonde curls …

Heart aching, he swallowed hard.

It was a good thing Ash Spenser wasn't around, he thought bitterly. Because if he ever crossed paths with his old team mate again … there was no telling what he might do.

Jason wasn't the only one known for being fiercely protective of his men – Blackburn could give him a run for his money.

Ash Spenser's loss was Bravo's gain.

Clay was their kid now.


End file.
